Game of Thrones Season 7: The Alternate Version Part 1
by Grand Admiral Harmon
Summary: Dany is about to invade Westeros. Jon fights to keep the North independent even as he is forced to seek help from unwanted allies. Cersei willing sides with insanity. And Jaime struggles to break free of Cersei even as he leads the war against the Targaryen loyalists. This is part 1: Prologue-Episode 11. Episodes 12-23 will be in Part 2.
1. Prologue

**Authors Note: I do not own Game of Thrones or any characters. They all belong to HBO.**

 **Reason for this story: Season 7 is over and while I loved it, I had many problems with it. Some were understandable and others weren't. So, the attempt with this story is to make changes both storywise and logistics to prevent the failures of this last season. So, no jet-packing, no super rushed plots. Plot armor is going to be at a premium, people WILL die. And even if I like the character myself, they will not be safe from death or other horrible things happening. So basically, hopefully this will be the season we wanted.**

 **There is going to be 24 Episodes, including the prologue, which will be a separate episode. But these episodes are going to be so massive that they are going to be broken up into different chapters. So while there will be 24 Episodes, there will be a ton more chapter.**

* * *

 **Prologue**

*Magen Lannister*

It wasn't his first command. Nor did he feel this would be his last. The wind whipped through his hair, cut short like most men of the profession were wont to do. Why, some might ask, would men shave their heads like this if they didn't have lice or scurvy?

He had once had a mate who had told him, "When the seas be most fiercest, then ye be wishing that you didn't have dat der long lock of golden hair."

So it had been so. Ser Magen Lannister was the son of a third cousin of Tywin, the most famous Lannister in the Seven Kingdoms, excepting perhaps his son Jaime and his daughter Cersei. He had learned during his time as a sailor for the Lannister navy, that long hair was a curse that could be caught in rigging, splinters of wood, and more foul things then lice crawled around in long hair.

Health was paramount on two conditions. Good food, and clean bodies. Both were hard as sailors, yet the Ironborn had been the first to link such devilry as scurvy to ships that lacked in fruits, especially the citrus kinds. The Ironborn had basically taught the whole of Westeroes how best to sail the seas and remain alive at the end of the trip.

His ship was a proud ship, long and sleek. It was meant for speed, in pursuit and escape. It was not meant to be ramming other ships. About a dozen small scorpions lined the ship on both port and starboard. A long prow stuck out proudly in-front of it, with the bulwark being made in the shape of a naked woman with a lions mane.

Her name was the _Paid Debts_ which many of the crew laughed at. Even Magen couldn't help but chuckle at the jest. How often had the Lannisters boasted about their perpetually ability to repay debts? It was certainly more famous than the actual family motto of "Hear me Roar!" Seven Hells, Magen couldn't have even started to count all the times he had told people, "A Lannister Always pays their debts".

The crew was thirty, the captain, first mate, bosun and twenty-seven hands. It was small, to be sure, but the length and width of this boat was such that a larger crew wasn't needed. He actually preferred this ship size, he had always had a problem with names and faces, but the lack of a large crew meant he could easily remember any name with ease.

But for this trip, they had added a dozen passengers. Even as he stood there, at the prow of his ship, scanning the horizon, he heard a curse rise from behind him followed by a general scuffling. Magen closed his eyes and tried not to get overly annoyed, especially as the bosun was already on the case of pulling the newest fight apart.

Although he was mighty glad of the ship, he couldn't help but wish for the days of old. The Greyjoy Rebellion of 289 AC (Years after Aegons Conquest) had destroyed the Lannister fleet and it had taken them the following seven years leading up to the War of the Five Kings to build a dozen ships. Even during the years of the war they had only built five more ships. Now it was 304 AC and in the fifteen years since the Raid at Lannisport which had destroyed the fleet, the entire Lannister navy consisted of only seventeen ships.

He heard far sooner then he saw the footsteps of the First Mate. He had been on the only surviving ship of the Raid, the _Casterly Rock_ , which had survived by running the gauntlet of Greyjoy ships by dosing all the lights and running quiet. He had been only nine years then, but at twenty-four, he had spent his entire life on the seas. One gained an ear on these waters and could easily learn the sounds of individual peoples by the pressure of their footsteps and how loudly they stepped, the swiftness or slowness that drew their owners closer.

"My lord Captain," a deep rumbling voice said. "Would you like to watch the punishment about to be doled out to the two who fought?"

"Nah," Magen shook his head. "I am quite certain the Bosun will be more than capable of handling that without my watching over his shoulder."

The First Mate chuckled. His voice had a curious characteristic too it. It sounded like water being strained through a sponge. That was the only way that Magen could ever have described it. It was most certainly one of those things one had to see to believe. Or in this case, hear to believe.

"I'll be glad once we get these fookers off our ship," the First Mate said grumpily, crossing his arms.

The First Mate was a good old salt. He had been in the navy far longer then Magen had been and he was certain that the old crusty seadog would be around far after everyone else in the world was dead and sent down to the Seven Hells. He was that kind of person.

"I'll drink to that!" Magen replied heartily, "But first we have a job to do. Once we get it done, not only we can we get the fookers off our ship, but we can also fook a few whores as well."

A wide toothy grin spread across the face of the First Mate. Well, as toothy as it could get. He was missing at least three of his teeth. Two were from fist fights he had been in. The last one had rotted away.

"What is your favorite establishment, anyhow?" he asked, leaning against the railing of the deck. "I don't believe I've ever seen you with a whore, if I say so Lord Captain."

"I have a favorite," Magen replied, "It's at Stonedance, just south of Sharp Point."

"Ah," the First Mate said with a knowing nod of his head. "I believe you are thinking of Maester Jamal's place. He's always got good girls, although how a Maester ever got allowed to own a brothel is anyone's guess."

"I highly doubt he's a Maester anymore," Magen replied. "Your favorite is the one in Old Anchor if I remember correctly."

"Second favorite," came the correction. "My favorite is the one in Coldwater on the Fingers."

"That's a Petyr Baelish one if I remember correctly," Magen said. Of course it was. Littlefinger had been so named because he had grown up on the Fingers, one the smallest of them before being warded in House Tulley. Everyone in the Realm knew that.

"Aye, Captain," the First mate spat over the side of the ship. "So where do you think this Gods damned fleet is that everyone is talking about? The one the Dragon Bitch has gotten?"

"Something over nine hundred ships if the rumors are true," Magen said, shaking his head. The largest fleet he had ever heard of was the two hundred Ironborn Fleet. More ships then that was simply assured. How could one even gather that many ships?

"Captain Magen!" a voice shouted in anger. Magen closed his eyes, trying not to be annoyed. "I need a word with you!"

He turned to face the army commander. Out of the dozen foot soldiers that had joined their command, one was a Captain that was named Gerold Shett from Cornfield, about two days ride from Lannisport. The man had served with Tywin Lannister but had never actually fought in any battle. Closest he had ever gotten to a fight was as a rearguard for Tywin's army when it had flanked Stannis' army at King's Landing. He even had the look of an untried man, perfect golden hair, no scars to blemish face nor hands.

"What is it Gerold?" he asked, letting annoyance slip into his voice. "Me and my first mate were having a discussion about where this Dragon Bitches fleet is."

"I will have you know that I am supposed to be involved in any disciplinary action towards my men," the foot soldier commander said, planting his fists on his hips. "I don't care what discussion you are having, this was agreed upon when I came onboard. Yet your….your…..what in the name of the Mother do you call the fellow without the ear?"

"Oh, that cunt?" the First Mate smirked. "That's the Bosun. It's his job to make sure these sons of whores keep in line."

"But your man is stripping the shirts off both your man and my own," Captain Shett said, pointing a stubby pointer at Magen. "He's about to beat them and he did not consult me about this punishment! Only reason I know is the fact that I was up here to begin with!"

"Why don't you shut your pie hole?" the First Mate grunted.

Shetts face turned ashen then turned scarlet. Magen could almost have thought he could see steam rising from the man's face as he screwed himself up to say something very biting. But, Magen didn't really feel like getting into an argument with the man. So, he stepped forward and put a hand on his counterpart's shoulder and turned him.

"Look, Gerold," he said, waving his right hand out towards the sea around them. "Do you see all these ships?"

Gerold glanced around. Eleven other ships of similar design were driving through the waters to either side at a good seven knots, which was good for the calmer seas they were driving through. He grunted without saying anything, so Magen decided to take that as an acknowledgement.

"We really don't have time to get in such scraps and to be bickering like children in front of the men," he said. "We are hunting for a fleet coming from Meereen. At any time we could make contact and we don't have time to have such fights."

"I only want what is my due," the Lannister captain growled. "Something we both agreed upon. You said we both would have equal share in making sure that the men got punished as we saw fit. I'm not saying that my man didn't get involved in fist-a-cuffs with your man. But I do not agree that your bosun can just do whatever the Hells he pleases with my men!"

"And you are right," Magen said. Gerold stopped with his mouth open.

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said," Magen reaffirmed. "I said you'd be able to have your own punishment doled out. Bosun! Let go of that man. Captain Shett was not informed beforehand and we should give him the chance….."

"No," Gerold cut him off.

"What?" Now was Magen's turn to blink in surprise.

Gerold took a deep breath. "Go ahead with your punishment," he told the bosun. The Bosun stood with shirt off, his body glistening from sweat in the midday sun. Both soldier and sailor were stripped and tied to the central mast. "Let this be a lesson to both of our groups that we both suffer the same penalties. Yes, these might be glorified fish mongers…"

 _Fish mongers?_ Magen frowned. _That wasn't called for. Who did he bloody think he was? The Crone?_

"But they are just as much Lannisters as we are," Gerold finished. "And we both suffer the same fates."

Magen nodded his head in approval as Gerold turned to face him. "That's all I wanted," Gerold said, and turned away and headed aft. Magen shrugged and turned and headed back to front of the ship, where the First Mate was relaxing, propped up against the prows rear end.

"That went rather better than I expected," he admitted. "That little shite has been nothing but a complainer since he got onboard."

"Well, he has every right to be," Magen replied, looking out across the waters. "So where were we? Oh yes, trying to figure out where the Dragon Bitch has her ships."

"I would say that she can't be too far away," the First Mate said, "That island to the right is Grey Gallows, and she'll have to pass around it to come up to enter the Narrow Sea from the Summer Sea. Although why she wouldn't just go to Dorne is beyond me."

"She's a Targaryen," Magen replied as if it was obvious. "She'll want to replay the Conquest of Aegon. So she's going to go straight for Dragonstone."

"Not if we stop her first," the First Mate said. "Nine hundred ships. That's got to be a mistake."

"Ship ahead!" a voice from the Crows Nest called out. "Coming into view from the South-East!"

Magen turned his eyes in the direction indicated. Yep, there was a ship alright. A long ship, it was too far to make out any details, but it was big enough that they could see it from miles off. Sea didn't work like land, where a few miles and you wouldn't see anything. You could see many more miles since there wasn't the same restrictions to be seen.

"Inform the rest of the fleet that enemy spotted," Magen called out and a bell began to sound. Other ships joined in the sounding of bells, acknowledging the order. "As soon as it's within range we'll began peppering them with scorpion bolts."

"Second enemy ship spotted!" the crows nest reported and Magen smiled. Well, at least they'd have a fight on their hands. "Three ships. Four ships. Five ships…."

The count kept getting higher and higher until it was past twenty. Every ship counted was a dampener on Magen's enthusiasm. Soon, there was so many ships, the crows nest shouted, "There's too many Gods damned many of them to count! And theres….."

A sound tore through the sky and Magen looked up and his heart froze. Dragons were bearing down on them. He turned to the First Mate and the man's eyes were wide with horror. They….they had thought it was a rumor.

"Get those scorpions aimed at those fookers!" Captain Shett was calling out. Magen didn't even need to turn, he could hear the men running all over the place.

The dragons, three massive dragons straight out of history and legends, zoomed in on the ship to the right of them. The crew of that ship, _Lannister Gold_ , was frozen with both shock and awe as the dragons hovered over them, flapping their massive wings. Then, three columns of fire rushed down, washing the decks of that ship in flames. Magen did not wait. He didn't wait to see the crews abandoning ship.

"Give us full speed!" he shouted, turning around to the crew and running to the back, to the raised wheel deck. "Get us in close to the Dragon Bitches ships!"

"We won't last long against those Greyjoy ships!" the helmsmen shouted as Magen ran up the stairs, his First Mate staying at the prow and shouting orders behind him. Scorpions were firing, but their aim was too low. They couldn't elevate enough to hit the dragons, but a few men were using bows and firing at the beasties. Most of the few arrows missed but the few that hit their marks bounced off harmlessly.

"We'll last longer then we will with those dragons!" Magen shouted, even as the _Lannister Gold_ began to break apart. The sound of wood cracking could be heard from where they were. "We may even take a few of them with us!"

And with that, the _Paid Debts_ shot forward, men using oars to propel the ship forward even faster. Magen looked around and behind him and he was glad to see most of the ships were joining him, driving forward as fast as they could. However, one ship, a ship with a lower deck and wider berth was panicking, trying to turn to flee. The dragons, acting as the predators they were, sensed the ship like lions sense the weakest of the pack and swarmed it, bathing the ship in flames.

"Prepare to engage in ship to ship combat!" Magen shouted.

"What the fook do you think we're doing?" Shett shouted back angrily, men reloading the scorpions as fast as possible.

Magen turned to see the rapidly approaching enemy fleet. There was so…. _many_ of them. How in the name of the Seven were they supposed to defeat so many? And that one in the lead, that one's prow was fashioned to look like a dragon.

There she was. Magen could feel it in his bones. Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen. The one who claimed herself to be the Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains. As they got closer, he could even see the silver haired bitch standing at the back, her hair glistening in the sun.

"A thousand gold dragons to any of you shits who kills Daenerys Targaryen!" Magen shouted, pointing to the ship in front of them.

"I'll double that!" Gerold shouted in response.

The scorpions turned towards the ship and those scorpions that couldn't were abandoned by all who could pick up bows. As they swept towards it, they were sliding from their port side, and on the other side, a similar ship like the _Paid Debts_ was preparing a similar run. He was pretty sure it was the _Queen Cersei_ but he couldn't be sure. All these ships looked alike.

On the enemy ship, he could see warriors in black leather armor lining the side of the ship, using the shields lining the side to protect themselves. Others in skins and bare chests were running up with bows. The ship was a little higher than the _Paid Debts_ but if they could get the first shots, it would help them.

"Loose!" Gerold shouted at the same time a foreign voice gave what was probably a similar command. Arrows passed back and forth as scorpion bolts punctured the shields. Magen smiled grimly as he saw several of the Unsullied and Dothraki fall but the return fire was accurate. One by one the soldiers and sailors fell. They continued firing back and forth, sliding past each other.

Magen's eyes caught sight of the Dragon Queen, and she didn't even turn to them. The Bitch was perhaps no more than two dozen feet away, and she wasn't even paying them any heed. That infuriated him to no end. Who was she to think that his _Paid Debts_ was no threat?

"Turn this ship around and get us after them!" he shouted, and the helmsmen grunted as he complied. The archers continued to fire back and forth and Magen saw the _Queen Cersei_ pulled up along the aft of the enemy ship. He ran over to the ships bell, the crew man who was supposed to man it fallen, screaming from two arrows that had planted on either shoulder.

He frantically pulled on it, ringing out the "Turn, 180 degrees" command. He was greeted a few seconds later by an acknowledgement and he saw the ship turning. They were turning faster than his own ship was and he turned angrily to the helmsmen.

"Why aren't we turning the fook around?" he screamed.

"We'll be rammed otherwise!" the helmsmen shouted and looking, Magen saw it was true. Two more ships were bearing down on him, turning ever so slightly in an effort to flank his ship. A great collision of wood on wood rocketed his ear-drums, and he turned in time to see the _Queen Cersei_ being rammed straight in the middle. The ship was already breaking in half as the much heavier enemy vessel used its brute strength to plow through it. Men were jumping into the water or being shot be enemy arrows.

"Captain!" the First Mate shouted, running back to him and waving his hands, "We're about to be raked on both sides!"

"Give these sons of whores a good Westeroese welcome!" Gerold shouted but the words had barely left his mouth when dozens of arrows showered the decks. Six men fell in the first few seconds and the rest hit the deck, hugging the sides of the railing even as the few really brave traded shots. The enemies were so close one could almost smell them, but they could certainly see the whites of their eyes. A few enemies did fall, but the same thing with the flagship, they weren't paying them more attention than it took to slid past them.

"We got to get the Seven Hells out of here!" the First Mate shouted as arrows landed thick around them. The running battle had already riddled the deck with over a hundred arrows and it was only by mere luck that they hadn't encountered any scorpions of their own.

"How do you propose we do that?" Gerold asked, a bow in his hands now, arrow notched and ready to fire at the first man who got clear.

"Samwell!" Magen shouted to the young helmsmen, who was hugging close to the wheel. "As soon as I say so, I want you to make a sharp turn to port. Starboard side oars are to row hard while port oars hold. Then keep turning until you see a clear shot then hold us steady. With luck, we'll be able to slip right past these cunts and make straight for Essos! We can't defeat these many ships."

The bow twang but Magen wasn't sure what Gerold had been shooting at. It really didn't matter though. If they didn't get somehow out of here, they were screwed something fierce. He waited, watching the ship to their left with a hawk-like intensity. They had to time this right. Time it perfectly.

"Now!" he shouted and the helmsmen turned as hard as he could.

One of the advantages to the ship they had was their sleeker frame allowed for faster maneuvers then wider and heavier ships. With skill belying Samwell's young age of sixteen, the ship began to turn at an incredible speed. The ship seemed almost to tilt on its side at the speed they were turning. The side of the ship gracefully turned, using the back of the enemy ship to the right to help guide it. The two ships were so close as they turned, that Magen would only have had to reach out his hand and he'd have been able to touch it.

They were almost at a direct forty-five degree angle, and they could see….other ships baring their way. There was no escape. Yet Magen couldn't even devise a new plan when the ship was rammed hard. A Essos ship of heavy wood drove through them. The ship shuddered, then began to crack. Loudly beams began to snap and cracks formed all over the ships deck. Arrows sliced downwards, hitting men who were staggering from the blow the ship had taken. The prow of the enemy ship was tearing through the ships hull, inch by inch driving further through it.

"Abandon ship!" Magen shouted. "Everyone, abandon….."

The ship shuddered as the front of the ship disintegrated. Bodies and wooden beams flew up in the air and men screamed. The force of the explosion jerked the ship to the left, just enough that their hull and the enemy's prow was disengaged. The enemy plowed once more into the gaping wound, but Magen had a few seconds to see the utterly devastating wound to his ship in all its glory.

Captain Gerold Shett jumped onto the starboard railing, following the example of several crew, all thought of his men lost as others were rushing up. He set his foot on it, only to fall backwards, gagging blood as an arrow imbedded itself in his neck.

"Get off the ship!" the First Mate was shouting, grabbing men and pushing them away from the port side. "Go the other direction, you damned fool! You jump portside, and the ships hull is going to fall right on you! You, stop cowering you cur! Get off the…"

With a Gods almighty crack, the ship broke in half. Magen was thrown backwards, hitting the aft railing hard. The two sides of the ship were now completely broken in half, and the force had thrown sent the heavier aft swinging backwards. Samwell the helmsmen hit the back of the ship, and the force continued rolling him backwards. Magen reached out to grab him, the youngster screaming in panic. Their fingers touched, but the boy rolled over the edge and into the water below.

He was forcing himself and stood, staggering to the front of the wheel deck. A few men were still on the ship, having become entangled in either rope or had smashed against the wall that made the raised portion of the wheel deck. He was about to call out to them, urge them onwards when something dark fell over the ship. He looked up, and Magen's heart sank. There was another ship about the ram them.

Magen knew there was no hope for the rest of the men on the ship. If they survived, they survived. If not, well, then the Drowned God would be able to add more to his army of mermaids. Turning, he ran full tilt towards the aft of the ship and with the ship still tilt that direction, it was an easy three long steps. He ran up the lip of the railing and with no thought but instinctual survival, he threw himself overboard. He was still falling when the enemy ship and the remnants of his own collided and something hit him hard and he blacked out even as he hit the water.

* * *

He awoke, spluttering. He thought he had died, and he wasn't sure what was stranger. The fact that he wasn't dead, that he seemed to be floating on air, or the fact that the first thing he was seeing was the arse ugly face of a crewman looking down at him.

"Ye be alright Cap?" the man asked, the man's mouth open in a toothless grin.

"Out of everything I wanted to wake up to, Jamsen," he informed the oarsmen, "Your Stranger-blessed face was not one of them."

"Stranger?" the man continued to grin, "Nay, Cap. I is as butiful as da Maiden."

Magen snorted in derision at that. He lifted his head and tried to prop himself up, but a wave of dizziness hit him. He closed his eyes hard as the world seemed to spin and felt hands grabbing him and pushing him back down.

"Now, now, My Lord Captain," a voice as rough as leather said, "I wouldn't get up for at least a few hours. You took a nasty bump when you hit the water."

"Maester Gail?" he asked, risking opening his eyes. The wizened old man was now in view, but where once had just been wrinkles and sunspots of age, there was now a bandage tightly wound around his chin. It was dark red.

"The very same," the Maester replied with a satisfied smile. "I was afraid your brains may have been jolted a little too hard, but since you seem to know who more than just Jamsen, you will be alright. Although, as you stated, his face is too ugly to forget."

"Did we win?" Magen asked, false lightheartedness in his voice.

"Ye be needen to check his noggin again, Myster," Jamsen said with a hoot, "He be talken crazy!"

Magen rolled his eyes at that. Despite his oarsmen's jolly disposition, he understood all too clearly what had happened. His ship, since it had been the flagship, had been the only one to be granted a Maester. He had taught others on other ships some of the more basic healing arts, but the thought that so many men would be dead today because their own ship didn't have a Maester made him sick.

"How many survived?" he asked, fearing the numbering.

"There's us three," Maester Gail informed him. "We are on what would be called the aft of the _Paid Debts_. Samwell and the Bosun also are alive, they are using the mast to keep afloat. One of the foot soldiers from Captain Shett's men is also alive, but the rest…."

"The First Mate?" Magen asked.

"I fear he probably drowned," Gail replied sadly, "But I can't be certain. I will say one thing though, this is a horrid mess."

"Help me up," Magen said, trying to prop himself up.

Gail's hand held him fast. "There's no point," he tried to argue.

"I want to see what has become of the fleet I was supposed to command!" he snapped, "Help me up!"

With a sigh, Gail put his hands under the Captains shoulders and helped pull him up. The noonday sun was gone, the sun setting to the west, behind them. So, it had been several hours he had been out. But it was light enough that he could see. The enemy fleet was long gone, having plowed through his small armada as if they weren't anything at all. What was left though, was sheer destruction. Men were floating in the water, faces up or down. Many had arrows sticking from them. Pieces of wooden beams were scattered across the water, bobbing gently up and down.

With a grunt, he turned himself so he could look towards where the rest of the fleet was. The world seemed to spin and he clenched his eyes shut. He waited, waited for the world to stop making such an irrational movement. Soon, it came to a stop, and he dared open his eyes.

Pillars of smoke could still be seen from burned ships but closer, he saw more of the same. As had been infront of the broken wood that he, Maester Gail and Jamsen were on. He spotted a few survivors sitting on pieces of broken wood, or bodies and rubbish floating in the salt water. Everything was ruined, and there were no signs of the enemy ships.

He was about to lean back when he spotted something coming through the descending dark. He squinted, although he was never sure why people did that. It didn't actually help them see better. Hells, all he would see was his eyelashes very fuzzily.

"Is that a ship?" he asked.

"My eyes aren't that good anymore," Gail informed him in an apologetic tone.

"Abut mine be good," Jamsen said and after a few second pause. "Ye be righto Cap. Der be a ship be come this direction."

"Is it Lannister or the Targaryen girls though?" Gail asked, voicing the unspoken question of the Captain.

"Well," Magen said, watching it come closer, his head resting on the bony lap of the Maester, "If we get shot with dozens of arrows, you will know they're not friendly."

"Considering what Queen Cersei did to the Great Sept of Baelor," the Maester said, a shiver in his leathery voice. "Let me just say that it's not as great a comfort as you seem to think."

Magen had loved the Great Sept in Kings Landing. The beautiful mosaics, the painted stain-glass windows, the Septons and Septs in their great and beautiful clothing. The statues of the Seven and the burning incense. It reminded him of home, and his mother and wife. No, his mother was not also his wife. He wasn't a Targaryen and he wasn't the Queen and her brother, the Kingslayer. But there was that comforting feeling that one would get when one was home when one was in the Great Sept.

Everyone knew that the Queen had blown up the Great Sept. There was no secret to it. The official story was it was an accident, yet he had been in King's Landing that day. He had just received his commission to command the entirety of the Lannister fleet from the Master of Ships, Mace Tyrell. The bumbling High Lord had told him all he needed to do to command ships, yet Magen Lannister felt he knew far more about ships then the old fool.

Yet he had listened. He was not a lord himself, even though he was noble because of being a Lannister. Yet being called "Lord Captain" was an honorary given to all ship captains. So it wasn't like it was anything special, even if he commanded the entirety of the Lannister fleet. Although that was all gone, except for four ships, one which was docked at Dragonstone. That would most likely be the next ship to die.

"Can you make out the flag yet?" Magen asked the oarsmen. His vision was getting foggy and he had to close his eyes, giving them a rest. The Oarsmen, despite any flaws, was the only one who could tell if they were going to die or not.

"It be getting to dark to tells for sho," he replied, "But it be a big fooker. That be certain."

Magen's heart sank. If it was 'a big fooker' it wasn't one of theirs. They were going to die. They were going to feel a hundred arrow slamming into them, and among the last thing he was ever going to hear was Jamsen the Oarsmen calling a ship 'a Big Fooker'. He'd rather had his wife's small breasts pushed in his face at death.

"Well, as long as they end us quickly, I won't care," Magen said, opening his eyes. The ship was getting closer, slashing through the water like a sea-beast. It was getting closer and closer and now he began to make out the sails. The rest of the survivors seemed to have noticed because laments began to be heard all across the water.

"By all the Gods!" Gail said, his usually reservation of not speaking vulgarities broken. His voice was trembling and the man's tiny frame was shaking. "The Ironborn!"

"Fook me!" Jamsen said, and out of the corner of his eyes, Magen saw the man put his face in his hands as if to avoid looking at the end as it approached.

The ship, as massive as one pleased, slide up to them, as silent as a whisper of wind. It slowed to a stop, and something loud plopped into the water, the sounds of chains scrapping against wood as the anchor was lowered into the water.

Insane laughter rang out from the ship and Magen turned his head to see a man standing on the edge of the railing of the ship, his hand wrapped around the rigging to keep him in place.

"Why are you boys playing in the drink when you should be getting on board and dry?" the man laughed again, and at the same moment, a rope ladder was tossed overboard. "Come come! Come on up."

"Who are you?" Magen called out.

"I am the Storm!" the man said making a flourishing bow. "Euron Greyjoy, King of the Salt Throne and the Iron Islands. And I have a massive boner for your Queen."


	2. Epi 1: Dragonstone, Ch 1: Walder Frey

**Episode 1: Dragonstone**

 ***Walder Frey***

"Welcome my lords," Walder Frey said, looking with a scornful smile down the long table. "Sixteen sons of mine, all bastards if I ever did see any."

The sixteen sons all laughed at that. Their lord father was in a rather good and cheerful mood. If he wasn't, he wouldn't be smiling scornfully at them. That had always been the case with Walder Frey. Their father, despite his many personal flaws, had rightful reason to be so. How long had he been wronged?

The other lords had mocked and scorned him, especially since he had been late to the Trident. What most people didn't realize, was it had been _Robert_ that had messed things up, not Walder Frey. It had been that fat fool Robert who had told Walder when the battle was going to be fought, and then what had the Warrior bastard gone and done? He had attacked far sooner than he had told Walder Frey.

"Today we plan what we shall do with the North," Walder Frey said with a nod, "The Late Lord Walder the ninnies called me! Yet those sun-scrambled lords of the North are more piss-poor idiotic then we could ever have assumed. Do you know why?"

"Why?" Sickly Walder called from the back of the room. Unlike his brothers, he was the least Walder looking of all the brood of Walder Frey. He had a shocking silver head of hair, more Targaryen then Frey. Yet the lad couldn't have been Targaryen, unless there was more Secret Targs running around. The theory was that the Mad King and his sons had squirted their seed into women all over the Realm to prevent the bloodline from dying out. But no, the bastards had not touched any of Walder's wives or maids! He'd have cut the throat of any man who took one of his maidens.

"Because they called a literal Bastard to the Throne!" Walder thundered, slamming his fist on the table in front of him. "Drink up my sons, get your bastards fill of the wine I have set before you. Guards, guards! Get off your fat arses and get my son-in-law Edmure Tully from the dungeons. Oh, and get his bitch wife. I want them both hear when I lay out my plans for the North."

The guards nodded and left the room, leaving him and his sons together. Walder lifted his own goblet to his lips as his son did. Fine Arbor Gold. He had told all his sons gathered here that it was Arbor Gold he had given them. Stupid fool! Arbor Gold was white and this was brown. Were his sons that brain-dead they couldn't tell the difference?

"Fine vintage, my father," one of them, was this was Robert? Yeah, Walder was sure it was Robert. He was certainly the fattest in the room, not as fat as Fat Walder, mind. Poor boy, what had happened to him. It couldn't have happened to a nicer cunt. "Although it tastes more like Riverland wine then Arbor Gold."

Walder snorted. "That's why I am the Lord of the Twins and you are just a son of a fat arsed whore," he snapped derisively, "Who was your mother anyways? I forget."

"She was a….." Robert said but Walder flicked a hand.

"If I want you to speak I'll ask you a question," he interrupted him, turning back to his goblet. His actually _was_ Arbor Gold.

Robert frowned. "But you did ask me a question, Father," he replied.

Walder sneered at the plump little man. "Oh, yes," he spat. "So just because I asked you a question, you think you can answer it? Gods, you are stupider then that Young Woof. Woof woof. That's what I say to him. Who really brings his entire army to a wedding, eh? Only the stupid bastard of an equally stupid man. If _I_ had been Lord Eddard Stark, do you think I would have allowed myself to get killed by that pig-shite of a boy?"

He fell silent, expectantly. His sons did not answer, leaning in to hear what their father would say next. Walder waited, and so did they. He scowled at them his most disapproving glare.

"Did all my sons fall deaf and mute?" he demanded. "When you father asks you a question, he expects it to be answered!"

Bald Walder, sitting three chairs down to the right, cleared his throat, frowning. "You just told Robert that you will ask us when you actually want a question answered," he said, "Then you cut him off."

Walder's lifted his eyes and stared at the ceiling and shook his head. He then slammed his hand on the table, cutting the blubbering fool. He stared at him, his eyes burning with a cold intensity.

"I didn't actually want the question answered!" he snapped. "I wanted the other question answered!"

One of his sons, Gods help him, he couldn't remember who was who anymore, raised his hand. He turned his glare at him. The boy had a lazy eye that had a tendency to wander. Probably wanted to get a look at a big fat stiffy, the queer.

"I'm confused, what question did you want answered?" the boy asked, who had a bad roving eye.

"By all the Gods Old and New," Walder threw up his hands in despair, "You all are the densest lot I've ever seen."

The sound of chains scrapping the stone could be heard, and the old man looked up expectantly. Through the door came a disheveled man, his light brown hair fallen in clumps around his face. He looked like a horse, to tell the truth. Not even a healthy horse, like a stallion. No, like a sickly workhorse that should have been put out its misery a long time ago.

The guards held his arms tightly between themselves. Walder pointed to a corner and the guards nodded. At least the guards weren't as dumb as bricks, unlike his sons. Gods, what did he ever do to deserve such dunderheads?

Even as he thought this, his daughter Roslin stepped into the room. Roslin Tully she wished to call herself, but Walder would have none of that. She was a Frey! He didn't waste good seed on her farmer's daughter of a mother just so she could throw away the Frey name for a damned fish!

She spotted her husband and gave a squeal of shock and made to run towards him.

"No, you don't!" the Lord shouted, pointing a bony finger at her. "You will keep your place like a good wench! I don't care if he is my son-in-law, and you spread your legs for him. You will stay in place."

Roslin looked at her father, and she could see the hurt look on her face. This was crueler torture then anything her mean father had ever done to her. Let the wench wail like a woman if she wanted. Walder was not in the business of being nice to people. Oh no! That was not his way.

"Now that our guest of honor is here, let us commence with laying out my plans for the Riverlands, the Twins and the North!" he said aloud, raising his cup again.

His sons shouted their approval and lifted their cups again and drank deeply. He smiled in a toothy sneer and drank as well. His sons had become quite accustomed to their Lord Father's shifting moods, which could pivot on a dime. They better had! Or else he would name them Lord Paramounts of the Sewers!

"Now we have the Riverlands and the Twins to first plan for," Walder said with a bang of his goblet. There was no more wine in it, so it wasn't like it was going to spill. "Now, I am not getting younger and I have decided on whom shall be my replacement."

Those words perked the ears of his sons and they turned to him. Except for Robert and Sickly Walder. Their faces had turned ashen and they were sitting, blinking at the table. Walder looked at them both and spat, the ungrateful little shits. Had he not told them they were getting the best wine? And this was how they were repaying him?

"But we need not only announce my heir and successor, which is of the utmost importance," he said, another Walder beginning to grow ashen and reach for his stomach. What was wrong with that boy? "But we also need to plan what we shall do with the North in general. How we shall pay them for this insult. How we shall deal with this _Jon Snow_."

Edmure reacted, glancing up. He had a defeated look about him, something that suited that Tully well. Walder Frey had never liked the Tullys. They had always looked down on him as a piece of manure not worth the time to curse.

"Jon Snow?" he asked, his voice surprisingly strong despite his months of incarceration. "As in my sister's bastard?"

"No you dunderhead!" Walder snapped. "Your brother-in-laws bastard. Do you not know who your sister Catelyn spread her legs for? It was only Ned while her _ever_ so honorable husband decided to fook some southern whore. But, your lapse in judgement can be forgiven, I am sure a dark cell can scramble the noggin."

Walder tapped his head to drive the point home. He looked around, and all his sons except one was now sick looking. This one, was his named Hoster Frey? Walder thought so. He looked scornfully around at the other sons, and some were beginning to vomit on the table in front of them.

"What the Seven Hells is the matter with you all?" Walder snapped, standing to his feet. "I was just about to announce that from henceforth, we shall declare ourselves to the White Wolf of Winterfell. We shall declare for the North! Does that not please you all?"

"What's going on?" Hoster said, pushing back his chair as his brother turned and vomited blood onto his lap. He jumped to his feet, hands raised in both horror and disgust. One of the Walders, Walder was certain he was just named Walder, pitched backwards and fell on his back, gagging as blood began to pour from both nostrils in a thick stream. "What's going on?! Get the Maester!"

"Oh come now!" Walder sneered, "You could handle ripping apart an unborn babe in her mother's womb but you can't handle drinking some wine? You act as if I've poisoned you! Come on, you had no problems when the blood spurted from a mother of fives neck! You could see the blood of over two dozen guests but you can't handle being in the presence of your new lord?"

Every sentence was punctuated by the death rattle of a son of Walder Frey. One of the guards had turned to run to get the Maester of the Twins, such a noble and lovely position, to be sure. The other two guards shrank back to a corner, horror in their eyes. Walder looked at Roslin's eyes as they rolled back in her head and she collapsed to the floor, the sight of so much death overcoming her senses.

"You hold your place!" Walder snapped, pointing at the Guard who was about to run for the Maester. "Do nothing unless your lord commands it!"

"Father!" Hoster said, turning to him, his eyes wide. "What is going on?"

Walder stepped from behind the table and advanced on him slowly. Hoster was rooted to the spot as Walder approached him. What was going on? In his own despair and horror, he had missed most of what his father had said, otherwise, he would probably have been running.

"Is it not clear?" Walder said, putting a hand on his son's shoulder. "Winter came for House Frey."

Hoster frowned as he looked into his father's eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but gagged as suddenly a knife sliced across his throat. Blood gushed forth as he reached up and grabbed his now exposed carotid artery. Slowly Hoster fell to his knees, looking up with ever darkening eyes to Walder Frey. Walder's Frey lifted his hand, put his fingers to his ear then….removed his face?

Hoster mouthed a single word. The young girl that looked down on his now stared dispassionately at him. Even as he died, the young girl put a single finger on his head and gently pushed him back.

"Did you really think there would be no retribution for betraying the daughter of your Liege Lord?" the young girl asked, looking down at the dead body. With a slow turn, she took in all the dead bodies, and the guards who were too stunned by this revelation to move. Where once had stood their tall, hunchbacked lord, now was a girl in her teens.

"I wanted to see my new sister!" the girl said, fingers curling into fists. "I wanted to see her child, and be an aunt to it. I was going to be the best aunt that that little child was ever going to have. I don't even know her name! I wanted to see if Robb really loved her, or if he had just decided to bone her. But Robb wasn't like that, he had always been a romantic at heart."

She turned to the ceiling, and tears, unwanted and unbidden clouded her vision. "I wanted to see my mother again," she chocked back sobs. Despite all her training, all her time among the Faceless Men, she couldn't completely fight back her emotions. "I wanted to hold her tightly and to be held tightly in return. But you all butchered her."

With a gritting of the teeth, she lowered her gaze and kneeling, slide the blood drenched blade across the tunic of Hoster Frey. What a Gods damned fool. He had trusted Walder Frey, just like her mother and brother had trusted Walder Frey.

And Walder Frey had killed them both.

Slowly she stood to her feet and walked forward, each step either on or over a dead Frey. They were sprawled out in so many positions, all with blood running from all their orifices. She had spent the past two weeks as Lord of the Twins learning the type of poison used to kill Joffery. He had been a nasty little boy and she had wanted the Freys to die the same way their preferred King had died. It was nice to see the strangler was as nasty as it seemed, although she had assumed there would be more blood and clawing of the throats. She'd have loved to see deep furrow gashes in their throats as they struggled to get breath.

"Who….who are you?"Edmure asked, her uncle shrinking back from her.

She looked up at him, even though he towered over her when standing erect, as most people did, he was almost the same height as her. That's what happened when one was taken with fear. She didn't look at the guards, but tapped raised the knife and ran a finger along its blade.

"Unchain him," she said calmly, not saying what would happen if they disobeyed.

"We…we don't….don't have….the keys," one of the guards said, his whole body quaking with fear. "But I'll go fetch them!"

He turned and ran, disappearing from the room. Probably glad to escape the smell of so many dead men. The strangler had a weird scent, that was for sure. The girl thought it reminded her for cherry blossoms. She looked at her uncle, a scent of his own rising. One of filth and urine. He needed a good bath.

"Who….who are you?" Edmure asked again, but the girl did not answer. Instead, she just stared at him, searching his eyes. There was goodness and kindness in them, despite all that had happened to him.

A few minutes passed when the guard came bursting back into the room. The keys were on a massive steel loop, and grabbing Edmure's hands, he fumbled to push the key into the lock. A few misses occurred as he was too scared to keep steady. On the fourth try, it entered the lock of the right wrist cuff and with a click, the manacle opened. He quickly moved on to the left manacle and then bending down, quickly undid the feet ones as well.

The girl could smell urine coming for from the guard. She smiled, the man had pissed himself. Served him right for serving the Freys.

"Who are you?" Edmure asked a third time, this time with more strength and the fear had diminished.

"I am Arya Stark," she finally said, not turning from him. She held his gaze. "The daughter of Catelyn Stark, your sister. Do you know why I have spared you?"

Edmure frowned, confusion in his face. He seemed rather glad to see his niece but he had seen what she had just done. Poisoned fifteen grown men and had slit the throat of the last man. How could she really be Catelyn's daughter? Cat never would have done that….well, now that he thought about it, Catelyn _had_ slit the throat of Walder's wife in retaliation for killing Robb. She could read all these things playing out in his mind.

It was a simple enough question, but perhaps he thought it was some sort of trap. She would certainly have thought so. However, she wasn't the Arya Stark who had chased after cats in King's Landing. No, she had trained and had thought long and hard on the words of those passing words of Jaqen H'ghar. _"Now A Girl is No One."_

"Because I am family?" he asked.

"More importantly," she said calmly, "You didn't betray my family. Yes, you surrendered Riverrun, but you were forced into it. I can forgive that. Do you know why I have spared your wife?"

Edmure's eyes grew wide with horror at the implications. So did the guards, especially the guard who was standing next to the still unconscious Roslin. She would have killed her? But she was a woman! Arya would kill anyone, for she was truly " _No One_ ". And no one spared no one that she felt deserved death.

"No," he finally admitted.

"Because she did not participate in the slaughter of our family," she said. She turned from him and walked towards the door. As she passed through it she called back. "The Twins and Riverlands are yours, Lord Edmure Tully."

Edmure sagged slightly as the girl who was his niece left the hall. He clutched his knees, his body trembling from the sheer violence one small girl had caused. He knew the direwolves was the crest of House Stark. And she was perhaps the most savage of the direwolves.

"Oh, and one last thing Uncle," her voice called out from the hallways. " _Never_ betray my family."


	3. Ep 1, Ch 2: Daenerys Targareyn

***Daenerys Targaryen***

Rain fell across the upper deck of the ship, and it had driven all but those who were duty bound to remain on deck below. Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne, the Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, Former Queen of Meereen found herself sitting on a chair. A chair that swayed uncomfortably with the ship. Her children were…..somewhere. Dany actually had no clue where they currently were. She assumed they were acting like ducks at the moment and instead of flying, were settled on the water, using their tails to propel them forward through the water to keep time with the ships of the fleet. It amazed her the buoyancy that these large beasts actually had.

"My last trip across the Narrow Seas was by far less pleasant then this," Tyrion Lannister, her Hand of the Queen and as fine a man as she had ever known, said as he popped his knuckles. One by one they popped and Dany was getting rather annoyed by that. "I was stuck in a wooden crate and I had to shit through holes no larger than my hands."

"You keep popping your knuckles and I might just have Grey Worm stick you in a similar box the rest of the journey," Dany warned, giving him a sour look as he popped his thumb on his right hand.

Tyrion's hand had wrapped around his left thumb to give it the same treatment as his right thumb but glancing up at Daenerys and seeing just how deadly certain she was stopped. "Pardon, Your Grace," he nodded, wiggling his fingers with wanted relief in the joints which was now forcibly put on hold.

"I have asked Varys to join us," Dany informed him, the chair swaying a little more sharply than usual as the ship bobbed up and down over a small wave. She gripped the armrest of the chair with more pressure then was probably wise, and she could feel the pressure running back through them.

"Oh?" Tyrion asked, frowning. "May I ask why? I like Varys but you haven't gone out of your way to talk to him, Your Grace. Why this sudden interest?"

Dany lifted an eyebrow. "Do I _really_ need a reason?" she asked.

Tyrion shrugged and as his shoulders settled in their proper position, the door knocked twice. "I've heard something rather interesting that you will find intriguing," Tyrion said as she called for the caller to enter. "I'll wait until after we're done to tell you."

The door opened, rain slashing hard and fast outside, some of it falling inside the doorway. This ships cabin was actually on the top deck unlike most where it was located beneath the ship itself. Lightning flashed as if on cue to frame the silhouette of two men. One was her Unsullied bodyguard that remained on duty twenty-four hours a day. No, not that exact person, but the Unsullied always had at least one guard posted. Dany hadn't given much thought to having a permanent Queen's Guard since Ser Barristan Selmy had died fighting in the alleyways of Meereen, but it was something to look into she assumed. The other person was wearing a heavy hood over his head and as he entered, water fell in a torrent from his soaked robes.

"Your Grace," the man said, pulling back his hood to reveal a round, bald heavy. "I have come as summoned."

Daenerys nodded. "Thank you for gracing me with your presence, Lord Varys," she said to him, keeping a very polite tone to the sarcastic comment. "You didn't need my permission to approach me. In fact, I can't even recall you being in the same place as I was since the departure from Meereen."

"I do apologize for that, my Queen," Varys said, sliding his arms into the sleeves of his robes, making it look like he was some religious follower. "I have been busy trying to establish my spy network on Westeroes. I'd rather not us land there with no little birds to cheep for us."

Dany didn't say anything for a few seconds, but gave him a long appraising look. This was the man known as the Spider. Barristan Selmy had not thought highly of the man. And what was it Jorah…..she reached up involuntarily and grabbed her heart as pain hit it from the thought of him. Oh, her poor Jorah! As much as Drogo had loved her, she was certain no man had ever loved her as fiercely and deeply as Jorah did.

 _Please come back to me, my Bear,_ Dany thought with all the might of her mind, hoping against all logicality that the words would reach Jorah. _I need you by my side._

"I have heard rumors about you," she said at long last, dropping her hand to the armrest as the ship rolled once more. "I heard you were a mermaid and that's why you wear long robes. It's to avoid showing people you have no legs but fins instead."

Tyrion snorted in laughter and had to hide his mouth behind his hands. Varys' eyes went wide with momentary surprise at the absurd notion. Dany had grown very good at reading micro-expressions and coercing the truth from people. It was best to keep them off-balance. It had a way of flustering them into the truth.

"I do assure you, Your Grace, I do indeed have legs," he replied with a still shocked expression on his face. "I like wearing long robes because in my life and in my position, people would like to stab me or do worse. So, it is better to hide the vital organs with long cloaks."

Dany nodded. "So what have your little birds been cheeping?" she asked, grabbing reaching up and brushing a long strand of snow white hair out of her eyes. "You have indeed had a flurry of ravens. I have seen your ravens far more than you yourself."

"Not too much of consequence I fear," he shook his head. "There is only two pieces of news that may be of interest to you. Cersei is now Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Wait!" Tyrion said, stopping him, "What happened to Tommen?"

Varys looked might uncomfortable. "There is no way to say this kindly, Tyrion. Your nephew committed suicide by all accounts after Cersei decided to blow up the Great Sept of Baelor and his Queen, the Lady Margery was in there as well."

Tyrion sat like a man who had been struck hard across the face. He looked down at the floor, and Dany watched him. How close had he been to his nephew? She was rather curious of how he would react to the news.

"The North has declared for a new king," Varys said, hoping to break the awkward silence.

"Oh?" Dany asked, fire seemed to appear in her eyes. "What unfortunate soul will I have to burn to the ground to get what is mine?"

"A bastard by the name of Jon Snow….."

"Jon Snow?" Tyrion interjected, and Dany turned to see his eyes wide with shock. "Ned Starks bastard?"

"You know him?" Dany asked, intrigued. Was this what he was going to tell her that he assumed she'd find intriguing? But no, the shock and astonishment on Tyrion was genuine. He had not known this. Yet if he and Varys were friends like Tyrion had claimed shortly after their trip had started, why wouldn't Varys have told him about this?

"I do indeed, Your Grace," Tyrion replied, turning to her. "I accompanied him to the Wall when he was to join the Night's Watch. A good fellow, and a good potential ally. But the Night's Watch is something for life, by oaths. How did he get away? Did he desert the Wall?"

Varys shrugged. "My sources only stated that there were extenuating circumstances," he replied.

"And what shall be the extenuating circumstances that I allow you to arrive at Dragonstone with me and not just throw you into the sea?" Dany asked, and the room grew extremely tense. Varys frowned in confusion and Tyrion's mouth opened slightly.

"Your Grace?" Varys asked.

"You tried to have me assassinated as a child," she accused, although accusation was generally with some room for doubt. There was no doubt here, only solid facts. "Was the order given before or after Ser Jorah Mormont informed you of my pregnancy?"

"Why don't you punish Jorah Mormont for being a spy?" Varys retorted, trying to deflect the question. "I was only following orders, Mormont was merely…."

"I know of Jorah's crimes," she cut him off. "I banished him, and he now has greyscale. Trust me, Lord Varys, he has paid for his crimes many times over. Now you, you claim you were following orders. Why didn't you kill Viserys? He was the one truly trying to take the Iron Throne at that time. Not me. So why should I trust you?"

"Illyrio Mopatis and myself have always been working towards the Targaryen restoration," he explained, "Viserys was the one in line to the throne. You weren't. All we knew was that you were beautiful and young."

"Don't flatter me," she snapped. She forced herself to her feet, even after weeks on the sea, she still didn't completely have control over her balance. Part of being so small and light as she was, she didn't have too much body to work with. "It was your friend who sold me like meat to Khal Drogo. Viserys was nothing but a spineless snake with hardly a brain in his entire body. Yet you refused to kill him. Only me. Only you found me a tougher nut to crack."

Varys said nothing, but she could see the tightening of his facial muscles. The straining his jaw as he set teeth together and ground them. His eyes were hard as he looked at the small woman. But there was no wiggle room.

"Your Grace," Tyrion ventured, "He's always proven a loyal servant…."

"Loyal?" she scoffed, not turning from Varys. "Loyal? He betrayed my father for Robert Baratheon. Then by his own admission he was undermining the Usurper. How many Kings and Queens have you sold out for your own gains?"

Varys shook his head. "Your father was a monster," the bald man said, calmness in his voice even though a good deal of anger was also there as well. "Robert Baratheon was better than he was, but he couldn't be bothered to actual rule. He plunged the Seven Kingdoms into untold debt. And his son Joffery, he was a cruel and spiteful little boy. I have no doubt he'd have become more cruel than the Mad King had he lived long enough."

"You haven't convinced me," she retorted. "Did you really think I was going to wait until we were on Dragonstone itself before I called you to task? Did you think we were going to be standing around the fabled table Aegon the Conqueror made with a roaring fire to keep us nice and warm? No, this isn't a pleasant fiction for you. So tell me, do you have any loyalties? Whom do you serve, if not yourself?"

"The Realm," the words nearly shot forth like arrows, Varys face was contorted in rage. Dany had finally gotten to it. The truth, the façade was broken and all there was now was the truth. "I am for the small folk. Those that the Kings and Queens and highborn have always felt to crush. I was a small folk myself, but I rose to heights to achieve this one purpose. To find a ruler who would actually have the best interests of the people at heart. And you…..you….you have, Your Grace. You, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, have actually spent your time trying to improve the lives of others. That's why I serve you now, but I refuse to serve blindly. If you fail the people, I will be in the wings to make sure you can't hurt them."

Dany and Varys stared at each other, their eyes locked in a duel. Her sword was aimed at gauging his sincerity. His was in defiance. They both knew what she did to those who she did not like. The dragons needed to be fed after-all.

"Very well," she said, stepping up to him with measured steps. "I accept your true loyalty. I want people around me who are willing to tell me 'no'. I do not want you working in the shadows and behind my back but transparent and to my face, keeping me straight and narrow. But trust me, if you give me bad council or work behind my back, my dragons will give you a fiery death."

The tension broke as Varys' face pulled off a neat little smile. A smile that told her everything was alright. She relaxed as he nodded once.

"As the Mother of Dragons commands," he said.

With a nod of dismissal, Varys turned and left the room, pulling the hood over his head before opening the door to the rain that was still pouring outside. As he stepped through the doorframe, lightning again illuminated the sky and she could see his silhouette again for just a moment before the door closed.

"That was rather intense," Tyrion commented, as Dany sagged and put a steadying hand on a table along the wall. "May I ask for something in the future, Your Grace?"

"Yes?" she asked, looking down at the floor.

"Let me know beforehand so I can make myself scarce," Tyrion said.

Laughter broke from her at that. Dany didn't really laugh that much, because she actually hated her laugh. It was loud, and felt rather forced and for a few minutes, she laughed uncontrollably. She staggered back to her chair, laughs racking through her body, making her abdomen hurt more than a little. She sank into it, continuing to laugh as Tyrion ran up, giving her a glass of wine.

She lifted it to her lips and drank a few long swallows. Trembling, she slowly pulled the glass away, the laughter having subsided. She nodded her thanks to the dwarf as she took another swig from the glass.

"So what were you wanting to tell me?" she asked to which Tyrion gave a blank look. She clarified for him. "That thing you mentioned before Varys stepped into the room."

"Oh!" Tyrion's eyes widened as he remembered, "That!"

"I thought you were going to tell me about Jon Snow with the way you reacted," she admitted, "But then I thought, 'If that was the case, why did he seemed so surprised when Varys mentioned it?'."

"Yes, no," he shook his head, "Although he would be a valuable ally."

"Ally?" she asked, "No, he will bend the knee or I will lay waste to him. I will have no equals or rivals."

Tyrion frowned as he heard this. "But Yara," he said, "You gave her independence."

"No, I didn't," Dany explained. "The only reason I am supporting Yara claim to the Iron Islands is because she is changing her people's entire way of life to fit my vision. Give it ten years, and the Iron Islands will be begging to return to the flock."

Tyrion did not look happy, but Dany wasn't interested in his opinions on the matter. Honestly, Dany did not believe in having partners or equals. No, ever since Khal Drogo died, she had been proclaiming her rights and demanding what was hers. She had not served in Slavers Bay as one of equals. All the cities had to submit to her will.

Yes, she wanted the Little Folk to be free. Yes, she wanted more equality. But only as long as she was the one calling the shots and what qualified as equality. This Jon Snow, he'd have to step in line. Or be stepped on.

"So tell me, what were you going to tell me," she commanded, not wanting to get into a discussion of political theory, as Viserys had called it.

"You won't believe it," Tyrion said, and lifting the pitcher of wine, started refilling her glass, "And you'll want some more wine."

She gave a half smile and raised an eyebrow. Darrio Naharis also liked getting her drunk before they would make love. "Why, my Lord Tyrion," she teased. "Are you wanting a chance at my bed? Let me tell you, the experience would be detrimental to your health."

Tyrion's eyes grew wide in unveiled horror at the very idea. "No, Your Grace," he responded. "Nothing like that. As much as I am a lover of wine and women, this has nothing to do with me."

Now her interest really _was_ piqued. She leaned forward in her chair, waiting with bated breath to hear what he had to say. He filled a cup of his own and held it up in a toast, teasing her with the drawn out delay.

"You know that Missandei has situated herself down below decks near when I am and not up here," he said. This was something she already knew. "Would you like to know why?"

"Missandei is a free woman now and doesn't have to stay by my side every hour of everyday," she shrugged her shoulders. But seeing how much the half man _really wanted_ to tell her she rolled her eyes and lifted her glass to her lips. "Fine, why is she staying down there."

"Missandei has been visited by Grey Worm every night the past two weeks," Tyrion said, putting his own glass to his lips. "And if her screaming is any indication, he is quite good in bed. For being an eunuch, and all that."

Dany had just began drinking from her wine when she spat it out on hearing it. And she began laughing again.

* * *

Later that night, Dany was fast asleep. She and Tyrion had stayed up until the rains had stopped and the Greyjoy captain of the ship had informed them they'd be arriving tomorrow at Dragonstone. Dany felt very giddy and would have stayed up, but she and Tyrion were both very drunk by that point in time. They had been trying to figure out the best way eunuchs could have sex and if by some miracle Missandei got pregnant, Tyrion was to become the doting uncle and Daenerys would name their child her legal heir.

Tyrion had fallen asleep on the floor next to the table, and before she had fallen asleep, he had seen tears spilling from his eyes. It had been a few hours, but as he slept, he wept for his nephew. She suddenly had felt very sad for Tyrion. Tyrion must have been a very good uncle.

Yet now she was asleep, and her dreams were strange. She was back in the throne room of Kings Landing, as she had been in the House of the Undying. The roof was blasted apart, and snow was falling through the ceiling in a heavy snowfall. She did not feel cold though and decided to sit upon to the throne, the seat was covered and she could not sit on it. Snow was on the throne.


	4. Epi 1, Ch 3: Brandon Stark

***Brandon Stark***

The raven cawed, jumping back and forth sideways on the hard obsidian stone. Its head jerked from side to side as it watched what was going on down below. A wooden ship was pulling out of the harbor and making straight for further inland, a lion painted on the sails. The raven knew the movements a creature made of fear and it looked to see what predator would cause the lion painted ship to flee.

Something large was flying in the air. Larger than a hawk. The raven didn't know what they were, but there were three of them, but they evoked a premortal fear. It would flee, but it had no choice of action. It dropped down from the obsidian and floated down, using its wings to guide it. There were more wooden ships coming forward these ones with a similar looking creature painted on its sails, but with three heads.

The panicked shouts of men could be heard and it looked down to see red shelled men running up a long and winding stone path from near the shore back to the high mountain of stone that made the walls of this place. Even as they ran, smaller boats began to spew forth. Black shelled men, men with heavy leather skins with fur filled most of the boats, flanking a single boat filled with different looking humans. It was this boat that drew the most attention of the raven and it flew close to the boat, circling it and cawing.

There was a short man, almost the size of human children, and standing beside him, was a small female with long snow-white hair. The raven circled around boat although the men on the boats paid the raven no mind. The small boats hit the shore, and the first one off the boat was the snow white haired woman. She dropped to her knees, and felt the sand.

The raven swooped down close to her as noises came from her mouth. The raven could not understand the speech of man, but at that moment, whatever had held it let go, and with full control over its faculties, it flapped away as hard as it could, carrying a scroll on its legs. It had a mission to fulfill, and now with that inexplicable control gone, it could fulfill it.

* * *

 _"I'm home."_

"What's that?" the young woman said, grunting as she pulled on the sled.

"The Targaryen's have returned to Westeroes," Brandon Stark explained, "I saw it. Down in Dragonstone."

The young woman looked back at him, her legs straining against hard snow to break through it and clear a path for the sled of the crippled young man she was pulling. Brandon had always liked Meera Reed. Her and her brother had been good friends, with Jojen having given Brandon guidance with his green-seeing and warging. He had been invaluable and he had been sorry to lose him to the blade of the wight.

Yet, Brandon had always liked Meera. _Really_ liked her. Yet he doubted she liked him like that. It was because of him that Jojen had died, after all. So many people had died for him. Like Hodor, whose brain Bran had fried in the past.

"I thought you could only see wherever there were weirwoods," she replied, stumbling slightly as some deep snow nearly tripped her up. "My understanding is that there aren't any that far south."

"Oh no," he shook his head. "I can see anywhere and everywhere. I saw your father when he was with mine at the Tower of Joy. He stabbed Ser Arthur Dayne in the back and my father delivered the final blow."

Meera snorted, looking forward. "I always knew that," she replied, stubbornly keeping them moving forward. "My father told us all about it."

Bran frowned. Howland Reed had told his daughter the truth? His never had. Oh, he had heard the story hundreds of times of the fight at the Tower of Joy and the discovery of the dead body of Lyanna Stark. However, that wasn't true. He had left out the part where he had brought the bastard child of Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen north. Jon Snow wasn't a Snow at all. He was Jon Sand.

"Couldn't your uncle have dropped us off at least a few days ride closer to the Wall?!" Meera asked angrily, straining as they came to a rise. Her body was bent over almost double, her arms behind her as she grabbed the rope handles of the sled. "How much further do we have to go?"

Bran grimaced. "Two more days," he said apologetically. He could almost feel her jaw tightening to bite off a biting remark. "Why don't you rest?"

Meera grunted out, "Seven Hells!" And slowly they went up the rise. It wasn't even a big rise, but she had been pulling since at first light. Despite a few breaks to make water and to grab a bite to eat, she had not stopped.

"Meera," Bran called to her, "Take a break."

"You are so stupid Bran!" she snapped back, "If I take a break now, then you go sliding back….."she took a deep breath, "back down this hill and I'll have to pull you back up one Gods damned more time. I'll take a break when we reach the top."

It took a few more minutes of straining and back breaking work, but Meera finally reached the top. But more work was to be done so she pulled for a minute more. The sled had been on the downslope from the ridge of the short rise but like a beast coming into view the sled crested it into view and leveled out. And Meera collapsed face first into the snow.

* * *

Meera awoke a few hours later, face covered in snow to find heavy skins laying on her. Bran had situated himself with his back to a tree and a small fire burned. Bran smiled at her as she lifted herself from the snow, trying not to laugh at the mane of snow she had accumulated.

"What?" she asked, blinking her eyes. "How long was I out?"

"It's getting near evening," Bran said, still smiling at the sight of the snow that circled her face. "We have perhaps two more hours before it gets completely dark."

Bran could see the wheels turning as Meera mentally counted it off in her head. "I wish you hadn't let me sleep that long," she grumbled, pushing up onto her knees. "We got to get to the Wall. We can't afford to dillydally. If the Wights catch us…." Meera shuddered as those last words escaped her lips.

"I've been Warging to check to see if we are good," Bran assured her. "Besides, you needed the rest."

Meera stood up, and pulled the blanket off of her. She moved back to the sled and laid it on the bottom where it had been before and then stood up, putting her hands on the small of her back and stretching. Bran could hear several bones popping.

"Well, come on," she waved him on over. "We're going to have to make up time in the dark. Get on the sled so we can get a move on."

"Yes, mi'lady," he said with a grin. He flopped himself forward, putting his hands on the ground. He tossed snow over onto the fire, the wet snow fizzling as it landed on the crackling flames. As the fire fizzled out, he pulled himself forward, moving fast through the snow like a snake.

There was handles built into the sled, Meera's personal idea. Grabbing the handles, he pulled himself up, and Meera grabbed his legs. As he flipped himself onto his arse, Meera situated his legs so they were pointing more or less in a direct line to the front. Brushing off snow that was stuck on his legs, she grabbed a large fur that Bran had let fall on the ground and bundled him like a child, leaving his arms free but kept his legs somewhat warm. They were always cold, and not just from the winter weather.

"Seven Hells Bran," she chided, "Did you really have to get so covered in snow in your little fireside?"

She began brushing off his shoulders and hair which had all been covered in a good layer of snow. Bran looked at her face. There was so much exhaustion there. Yet there was determination there as well. She had always been such a kind and gentle person, who had devoted her life to helping out her younger brother whose Greensight had really done a number on him.

"Have I told you how grateful I am for all you have done?" Bran asked, as she brushed off his head.

She stopped and looked at him, their eyes meeting. For a second she hesitated, as if not sure what to say. Brandon didn't mind though. She had a pair of stunning brown eyes. Eyes that seemed to hold the entire universe in them.

"No," she said softly then standing up and turning she snorted, "But it took you long enough, Bran!"

"Sorry," he shrugged as she walked over the ever so present ropes, grabbed them behind her, and began pulling through the snow again.

Meera was good to her word. When she had said they were going to have to trek through the night, that she did. Onwards, determined she moved, using only the smallest of lights by a quarter moon to light their way. There was no sound of beasts that night, and Bran reached out, looking for any animals he could warg into.

Across the quiet forest he looked. Up trees to look for sleeping birds. Across the snow for slumbering beasts. Into bushes to look for rabbits. Down holes to find burrowed animals. Up into the sky. There was nothing. Silence and after many minutes, he gave up, more than a little disturbed by the complete absence of animals.

"I wonder what happened to all the owls that were here," Meera commented as he withdrew into his own thoughts. "There was a ton down here when we first came north of the Wall. Jojen was able to have a lively discussion with a family of them. Do you remember?"

"I'm the Three Eyed Raven," Bran declared with mock grandeur, "I remember and know everything that has ever happened or is happening!"

"What about what _will_ happen?" she asked back, turning slightly to bypass a tree that was in their way. Only its dark silhouette could be seen. "Can you see that? Can you see how people feel or what they are thinking?"

"Not really," Bran explained. They had never really talked about the range of his abilities but this was something Blood Raven had instructed him in the cave, back when Blood Raven was the Three Eyed Raven. "While I knew that the Three Eyed Raven's real name was Bryndyn Rivers, a legitimized bastard of Aegon the IV, I couldn't see how he was going to die. When I was with the Night King, I could feel his malice and hatred for all living things, but me above all. But I couldn't tell you what he was going to do."

Meera had shuddered as Bran had named the Night King. Bran didn't like that memory either, but he always felt the Night King's presence. Here in the North, above the Wall, his presence was everywhere. Not physically, but Bran could feel his influence as viscerally as the snow they were trudging through. His sheer intensity on fulfilling a mission preprogrammed into him so long ago.

Dawn was still a few hours off when Meera came to a stop. Her graceful strong body was trembling from the exertion she had placed on herself to go throughout the night, and the effort needed to not to walk into trees. Bran could hear her stomping a few feet away from him, trying to warm up.

"I think this is a good place to stop," Meera said. "Is it alright to build a fire?"

"Sure," Bran replied, "There's a silence in these woods, all the animals in this area are gone. So, the enemy can't spy on us."

"You get the food and I'll start a fire," Meera said to which Bran agreed whole-heartedly.

By the time the fire was started though, the air was getting colder. Winter was already deep upon the land but every day, the temperature kept dropping. Even with the fire and food they were cooking, they were shivering. Meera was sitting on the other side of the fire and Bran saw her shivering under her blanket.

"Come on," he said, opening his own blanket, "There no point in you freezing."

"I'm good," Meera replied, although her shaking fingers even as the fire did its best to keep them warm did little.

Brandon rolled his eyes. "Come on," he said annoyed, "You'll be much warmer if we share a blanket and body heat. The Long Night is almost upon us, and we both need to keep warm."

Meera hesitated, but it was only a short wait. The invitation for extra warmth via an extra blanket and body heat had a really good power of suggestion on her. Rising to her feet, she made the quick three strides to his side and sank to the ground, and Bran covered her in his blanket. At once he felt a little warmer and Meera placed her head on his shoulder.

"That's a little better," she admitted.

"So you are saying that I was right?"

"Don't get used to it Bran," she gave him a light punch on his ribs to punctuate her point. "You're still stupid."

Bran smiled, feeling her curly hair pressed against his cheek. It was a good feeling. They didn't say anything for a while, just sitting there and watching the fire. The trees seemed to dance in the firelight.

"Do you know why I asked if you could see how people feel or thought?" she asked.

Bran sighed. "I supposed it was to see if I knew how Hodor or Jojen felt at the times of their deaths," he said.

"What?" Meera exclaimed, pulling back from him and looking into his eyes, shock in them. "Why would you assume that I wanted to know that?"

Bran looked away at the fire, shame filling him. How could he explain to her? How could he explain how Hodor in the past looked at him, as he realized what was about to happen? How was she to know the last terrified thoughts of Hodor? How there was suddenly a calmness at the end when Present Hodor knew that at last he was going to be free, all while Past Hodor was terrified as his mind that had been his own, began to shut down bit by bit, losing almost all of himself except for a last command from Meera.

"Look at me Bran," Meera said, but he couldn't. He couldn't look at her. Not when he had felt Jojen's death as well. He had known through the Greensight Jojen's fear as life was ending. It wasn't calmness that he took the end. It was fear and endless disappointment. Disappointment that he never got to see the one that had given him visions. "Bran, please, look at me."

Bran turned to face her. She grabbed his face gently but firmly by both hands and looked him firmly in the eyes. He could see there the strength that he didn't have.

"It wasn't your fault," she said, "Have you made mistakes? Yes, but we all have. I have never hated you Bran, the opposite is true! Jojen and Hodor died so you could have a chance. A chance in this war to come. Had I really hated you, I would have left you to die in that cave or would have abandoned you shortly afterwards. But we believed in you."

"But why does everyone around me have to die?" Bran asked, unable to look away as she held him in place. "The miller's sons, Hodor, Jojen, the Three Eyed Raven, Leaf. There are no more Children of the Forest because of me. Even Rickon and Osho are now dead, all because I didn't take them with me. Everything that I do results in death. So why haven't you abandoned me and saved yourself?"

"Because I can't afford to lose you, Brandon Stark!" she cried, tears beginning to pour from her eyes. "If you died, this would have been all for nothing. I have my brother that I loved and I loved Hodor, that silly gentle giant. I refuse to lose you too Bran! I need you!"

And then the most unexpected thing happened. Meera kissed Bran. Bran was so surprised by the action, at first, he didn't return the kiss. But then, slowly he reached up to touch her cheek, when the entire world seemed to change.

 _The Night King sat on his horse, a piece of flesh falling off as it finally gave up all pretense of holding together. All around him in the dark, a sea of blue stars surrounded him, looking to him. The time was coming, the last remnants of the True North was coming together. Very soon, it would be time to move south._

 _He turned to his lieutenants, the Sons of the Man Craster, who had become his soldiers. Man called them White Walkers, and oh how much they had underestimated their numbers. Their hatred was mirrored in his own. He looked to the moon, and raising his hand, a storm began to cover the face of the moon. No light would hinder their path, never again._

 _In the background, there was spiders as large as hounds that were riding up to him. These would be given charge over different sections of the army that would bring destruction to the world of the living. Suddenly the Night King stopped and turning his head, glared at the giant wight that had stopped and turned to stare at him. With a lift of his hand and a flicker, the vision ended forcibly._

Meera was staring at Bran as his eye rolled back in his head. There was a calmness to him, his face seemed to have been carved from stone. He turned to her and there was nothing there, none of the life that had made Brandon Stark the person she had come to think the world of.

"Where were you?" she asked.

"Meera Reed," Brans voice said, no life to it. "The Gathering is almost complete. The Long Night is about to begin. The Three Eyed Raven…"

Bran suddenly grunted and grabbed his head. He was breathing hard as his head sagged in his head. He could feel Meera touching his shoulder, as if unsure what she should be doing. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, his vision was a blur of red.

"Water," he croaked, unable to say more than that.

He heard the popping of the water skin leather lid. He reached out to grab it, unable to open his eyes for the pain his head was having. With trembling hands, he put the water skin to his lips and lifted his head to drink from it. As he drank, warmth began to return to him. He didn't realize just how cold he had become.

"I was with the Night King," he said, feeling more and more relaxed as the pain subsided. "His army is almost complete. He's moving the winter storms to block out the sky even as we speak. He'll be on the move soon."

"You know," she teased, her voice betraying her concern. "If you didn't want to kiss me, you didn't have to go greenseeing to see the Night King. You could have just told me."

"It wasn't me."

The admission shook Bran far more than he ever realized. He opened his eyes, and the red was gone, replaced by the dark. He turned to Meera, and she could see the concern on her face. The sudden doubt he felt was in her face, plain to see in the firelight.

"Something forced me into the vision," he explained. "No, not something. Someone."

"Who?" Meera asked frowning, "Who could force you to have a vision? Can the Night King?"

Bran frowned as he thought. Well, the Night King was a far more experienced green seer then he was. Bran was most certain of that fact, that they both had the same abilities. But could the Night King force him into a vision? But why? Why would he give up the secret of his army's status?

"No," he shook his head. "I don't think it was him."

"Then who?"

"I don't know."


	5. Epi 1, Ch 4: Jaime Lannister

***Jaime Lannister***

Jaime's footsteps were purposeful, full of intent and purpose. Those who had known him had always said they could tell when he was coming just by the sounds his feet made when walking. Full of purpose and intent. Even when he was younger and more jovial that had always been his way. Now, he had a slimy little toad he had to pin up against the wall.

The chamber door opened with much creaking that made him wince. Ah yes, the weasley faced cunt was down here. Down the stone steps he marched, the leather soles of his boots lifting dust from the stairs. Which he couldn't even begin to imagine why, as the bastard who was here spent so much time down here.

When he wasn't pouring poison into the ears of Cersei. No, Cersei didn't need any help doing vile things. Even as children, she had been the more devious of Tywin's children. A spiteful, hateful woman, Jaime had once called her as a way of negging her into having sex with him.

Truth was, that was exactly what she was.

For all her protestations to the opposite, she had told Jamie once how happy she was their mother had died. Joanna Lannister had actually walked in on the first time Cersei and Jaime had fucked for the first time. She had beaten them both and then said if they ever did it again, she would inform their father, who would have made that beating seem like love taps.

So the very day their mother had died, Cersei and Jaime had sex. It had been her idea that time, not Jaime's. He had mourned their mother far more then Cersei ever had.

"Ah, Ser Jaime," Qyburn's voice called out as Jaime's feet stepped onto the floor of the laboratory. "Have you ever considered walking more softly? You'd sneak up on people with far more efficiency."

"I'm not here to sneak up on you," Jaime retorted.

Qyburn was leaning away from him over a table. His left hand was scanning an old tome, as his right stood poised over an inkwell, his fingers lightly grabbing a quill. The hand stopped as something stood out to the Maester and he withdrew the quill and began scratching something down onto a piece of parchment, his head making very small movements as he most likely looked back and forth between the words already written and those words that was now being written.

"Very fortunate then," Qyburn said, not turning to face him. "What can I do for you?"

"Where is he?" Jaime asked.

"Where's whom?" Qyburn asked, still writing whatever had struck his fancy. "There are many ' _he's_ ' in the Realm. Last count was somewhere in the estimate of seven million _he's_. So, you will forgive me if I am confused…."

"Don't play games with me little man," Jaime interrupted him. Jaime was in no mood for such things. "You know exactly who I speak of."

Qyburn put his quill into the inkwell and returned to his read, his fingers scanning the pages.

"No, I do not," Qyburn replied, "As I stated, there are many….."

Jaime had enough of this. With teeth set firm, he stepped the long length of the chamber to where Qyburn was still hunched over and grabbing him by the head, slammed down hard. Qyburn gave out a small yelp of pain as his face met the table. With a snarl, Jaime bent close to the Maester's ear.

"Where is Tommen?" Jaime asked, his words a hiss.

"Oh," Qyburn said as if surprised. His face was still firmly planted on the table, so it was a little hard for his to speak. "Have you not talked to the Queen? Errr…..she could tell you. Just as well as…..grr…..I could."

Jaime pulled him off the table and forcible he pushed him against a stonewall. The Hand of the Queen as he had suddenly become, grunted again as his body met the stone of the wall. Jaime wasn't even feeling especially good about hurting the smarmy little man, but he was not in a jesting mood.

"I'm not asking her," Jaime snarled, keeping his forearm and curled fist firmly against the shoulder. "I'm asking _you_. Where did you put the body? Where is he buried?"

"Let me go, Ser Jaime," Qyburn said, "You have it all wrong."

"Cersei does nothing anymore without you being firmly involved, you little piece of shit," Jaime growled.

Qyburn grunted. "There is no body," Qyburn explained.

"What do you mean there's no body?" Jaime barked a sharp laugh that held no humor. "He was the King! And there is no Sept of Baelor left to bury him."

"The Queen had me burned Tommen's body," the man explained. "She wanted him to be exactly like her grandfather, brother and sister. When the Sept went up in green flame, their bodies were also burned, so she wanted the same for him."

Jaime felt suddenly sick. Involuntarily, he let go of the small man and turned from him. With feet like lead, his body suddenly numb, he stepped to one of the tables in the room. It was rather large, big enough that a man could lay on it. Given Qyburn's fascination with corpses, Jaime would have had no doubt the strange fellow would have put on there at least once before. Slowly his hands rested on either side of the foot of the table and his fingers wrapped around the wood, and he gripped them with all his might. He didn't even feel the pain that shot from joints that were gripping harder than nature had intended.

"Did Cersei not tell you?" Qyburn said, keeping a well-advised couple of feet away from the Kingslayer.

"She refuses to speak to me on the subject," Jaime shook his head, the admittance giving him more pause then he wanted to admit. "No, all she does is rant and rave about how she will kill Daenerys Targaryen, 'the bitch daughter of the Mad King', as she likes to call her."

"The Queen is not one to mince with words," Qyburn commented, to which Jaime could only agree. Jaime stared at the hard wood of the table, his entire world focused on what was before his eyes. He was so focused he didn't even notice that the maetser was approached his side. "Tommen's ashes are at Baelor's Sept."

* * *

Jaime's horse trotted through the streets of Kings Landing, coming closer and closer to what had once been the religious district of King's Landing. He had dreaded coming this direction since he had arrived in King's Landing, now just a little over two weeks since his arrival back.

Yet now he had to. Need drove him to where he did not want to go, yet he had to.

Before he even arrived there, he began to see it. The destruction caused by the wildfire. Buildings had been burned to the ground. Bricks from destroyed buildings were strewn across the narrow roads. People with carts were swarmed around the area, gathering the blasted bricks from off the ground, but even after two full weeks, they were still fighting an uphill battle.

Few noticed him as he passed them by. Without his armor on, he was just another passer-by. Even his golden hand drew little attention from those people trying to clean up the ruins. The ruins his sister had caused.

It didn't take too long for him to find a stretch of street that had gone gouged out in a long furrow, that nearly seemed as wide and it was long. At the front of the long furrow was a massive bell. People were working, trying to extract the bell from the street. Yet it had buried itself nearly halfway in, and it seemed to Jaime to be an impossible task.

 _"Wisdom Rossart, has the wildfire been placed?"_

Jaime closed his eyes, trying to ignore the memories of the past. He would not give into melancholy by remembering the mad man who had been King. Yet the further he rode into the city, and the closer he got to the Great Sept of Baelor, the more destruction he saw. The greater amount of devastation that appeared with every step of his snow-white horse. The closer he got to the center of the blast, the more deserted the streets until it was completely silent. It was like walking through a graveyard. Silent as the darkest of midnights.

 _"Oh yes, Your Grace. We are ready when you give the word."_

And then there it was. Baelor's Sept. Or the gutted remains of it. Everything that was three feet or up was gone. There was so much ruination that his horse had a hard time finding a place to step. Jaime got off his horse, grabbing the reins he pulled the horse a few feet until he could find a piece of wreckage large enough that he could wrap them around the cracked stone. With a firm tug, he tied it as best as he could with one hand and looked up. Right into the grimacing face of King Aerys the II.

Jaime started as he saw the statue of the Mad King glaring at him.

 _"Tywin is sacking the city, Your Grace! The City Watch is outmatched and being cut down at every turn. The Mountain is cutting through to the Red Keep."_

 _"How dare he lie to his King! I am his friend, how could he do this to me? Ser Jaime, go out there and bring me the head of your traitorous bastard of a father!"_

Jaime shook his head. No, he would not listen to the voices of the past. The demons that woke him up in a cold sweat at night. He walked past the glaring stone statue and made the trip to the Great Sept. Closer and closer he forced himself onwards, even as everything told him to turn and flee. No! He would see his son. He would see where his son…..

 _"No, Your Grace! There must be another way!"_

 _He doesn't listen, but turns to the Pyromancer, who is grinning like a fool. Rossart is licking his lips, waiting for the order he knew was coming._

 _"Burn them all!"_

There was nothing left. A great gaping hold deep into the ground. Jaime slowly stepped forward into the abyss dust and ash having mixed together. The statues of the Kings were gone. There wasn't even bone to see. Pillars were torn and warped by the heat of the wildfire.

 _"Burn them in their homes!"_

Jaime's face went into his hands. No, no! This couldn't be happening! This couldn't have happened! No, all he needed to do was awaken from this dream, this nightmare and everything would be set right. The Great Sept would still be there. Tommen would still be alive.

 _"Burn them in their beds!"_

He pulled his hands away from his face to see that it was still there. The destruction. It hadn't been a dream. He had failed.

 _"Burn them all!"_

Jaime dropped to his knees, not even caring as the knee of his breeches split on a rock and he cut the skin of his knee. He didn't even care at the blood that trickled onto the rock, which was actually the chipped finger of a statue that was buried underneath the rubble.

 _"Burn them all!"_

He had given up everything to prevent this. He had killed the Mad King, forever shaming him to the eyes of all the world. Everyone hated him. _Kingslayer_. _Oathbreaker._ He had seen the disgust in their eyes. He had once asked Brienne what she would have done if her beloved Renly had ordered her to kill her father and then stand idly by as hundreds of thousands of innocent people died.

 _"Yes, Your Grace. Gladly."_

 _"NO!" His sword draw, he cut down the Pyromancer even as the man was salivating at the chance for fire. The pyromancer was still screaming as Jaime turned and shoved his sword into the only other Kings Guard in the room, the man drawing his sword with intent of killing Jaime._

 _"Burn them all!" Aerys was still screaming, even as he turned to run._

 _Jaime ran the few steps and catching the Mad King by the long locks of his hair shoved the sword through his back. "Burn them all! Burn them all! Burn them all!"_

 _"Shut up!" Jaime shouted as he pulled the blade out and Aerys collapsed to the ground. Aerys didn't scream, but kept shouting as loud as he could._

 _"Burn them all!"_

"Qyburn told me you'd be here, little brother," Cersei's voice cut through his reverie. "You must think I am mad. Destroying the Great Sept. But it was the only way to ensure that I would live. I did what was best for our family, you must believe that. Besides, you only have yourself to blame for not being here to talk me out of it."

 _"Burn them all!"_

Jaime did not respond, his hands, both gold and flesh laying on his knees, the palms turned up to him. He couldn't even see where Tommen's ashes were. There was nothing in these ruins that showed like a vase that his ashes might have been kept. No, they were scattered, like so many dandelion seed heads.

"I thought sooner or later you would talk to Qyburn to find our son's ashes," Cersei said, her voice coming from where the old doors used to be. "Honestly, I thought it would be sooner, but I thought you would have taken the hint I gave. Our son betrayed our family, and he deserved only what traitors of our House gets. He was seduced by the High Garden bitch, and what she promised between her legs and made him a lick skillet for the High Sparrow."

 _"Burn them all!"_

"You must truly be angry with me," Cersei continued. "You never have given me the silent treatment before. But I promise you brother, this was for the good of the family. And we are still young enough to have more children. You will eagerly help me in that regard, I have no doubt. You have always wanted what was between my legs."

How was that good for the family? How was his son a traitor? Tommen had been young, so of course he would lose what little sense he had when a pretty girl flashed him a smile. Sure, Tommen had been a really religious boy, so of course he would listen to the High Sparrow.

But whose fault had it been that the filthy ragged man had gotten to be head of the Faith? Not Tommen. Tommen had not been a traitor. Jaime knew what being a traitor was, and this was not that.

 _"Burn them all."_

"When you are done sulking like a child, I await you back in my chambers," she said to him. "We need to get to work if we are create a new dynasty. One that will last a thousand years, especially if we are to keep the Seven Kingdoms out of the hands of that foreign whore who has taken Dragonstone."

Jaime did not look at her as she turned and left, leaving Jaime by himself. His one remaining hand curled into a fist, his finger nails digging into the palms of his hand. He had gotten very close with Tommen after his ascension to the Crown. He had not revealed the truth of Tommen's parentage, he needed the fiction of being Robert Baratheon's son for legitimacy sake.

Yet Tommen had taken to confiding in him. As he had been guarding him, Tommen would ask his opinion on matters of state when he felt unsure. He would run ideas by Jaime before taking them to his mother. He had voiced his distress at how Margery and Cersei weren't getting along. He had asked his advice on how to heal the rift between his mother and himself.

 _"Burn them all!"_

He didn't know how long he remained there. The demons of the past and present haunting him. Jaime had failed to stop his sister from such dramatic measures. The exact measures that Aerys had tried to do. How had Jaime failed to impress of Cersei just how wrong that was?

There wasn't even an accurate accounting to how many people had died, both inside the Great Sept and without. Kevan Lannister, perhaps the second most accomplished military mind behind their father; gone. Mace Tyrell, the only one who might have been able to keep House Tyrell out of the hands of the Mother of Dragons; gone. Margery, the only one who would have been able to keep Tommen from committing suicide after the blowing up of the Sept; gone.

 _"Burn them all!"_

But as night began to fall over King's Landing, he took a deep breath. It was time to go back to the Red Keep, although he did not intend to go to Cersei's chambers. She could fook herself for all he cared! Slowly he rose from the dust and grime, grimacing as his knees popped from the hours spent kneeling on them. He nearly toppled forward, although there was a pillar he could grab. It was all burned and warped, but it held his weight as his legs got reused to his weight.

He turned to find that stars were beginning to appear in the sky. Jaime had always liked the stars. They didn't give him nasty glares when they recognized him. He wended his way through the rubble and out to the street beyond, tripping every now and then over a shattered brick.

Jaime turned to where his horse was…..only to find it was not where he put it. He looked around, hoping he'd be able to see his white horse. Being white gave her the ability to shine in even the dusk. Yet there was no sign of her.

Lifting his hands to his mouth, he called out "Joanna! Come here girl! Joanna!"

Hearing no response to the name, he circled his fingers and put them in his mouth. He whistled as loud as he could. Nothing. His shoulders sagged as he immediately understood what had happened. Gods damn it! Joanna was probably being carved up and served in a bowls of brown.

Now he was going to have to walk at least an hour to get back to the Red Keep. Rounding his shoulders, he grabbed the hilt of his dagger. He hadn't brought his sword because he hadn't thought he'd need it. Be in and out of the Great Sept.

"Well," he grunted, "A walk in the evening can't hurt me."

With that he stepped off into the night. Every step that fell though, the footsteps seemed to shout to him, _"Burn them all!"_


	6. Epi 1, Ch 5: Jon Snow

***Jon Snow***

How long had he wanted this?

There was a feast in the great hall of Winterfell. It wasn't a grand feast, Sansa had made sure of that. They needed to stock up on as many provisions as possible, but Sansa had told him they needed this for morale. He understood the need to keep morale high and despite his initial misgivings, he couldn't help but be satisfied.

Satisfied not only that this was a feast, but of where he was sitting. Whenever there had been a feast before, Catelyn Stark had made sure he was out of sight. Jon had never understood as a child why his father's wife hated him so, refusing to let him sit at the table with the rest of the family.

No, she had made sure of that. He was generally sat in the very corner with the fools of the Northern lords. How even the fools had been giving to mocking him! The Bastard of Winterfell. Sometimes, depending on whom had arrived, Jon was shunted away to the kitchens with the cooks, who seemed to be trying not to take notice of him.

On his tenth nameday, Eddard Stark had called together a feast, over the objections of Catelyn. Lords had come from all over the North and Ned had placed Jon in a place of honor, sitting right by Catelyn.

It had been a fine evening, and all the Lords had treated him with respect, something young Jon had not been accustomed to. During the third course, roasted duck as he recalled, Lord Wyman Manderly had approached the table and asked Ned if his Fool could sing a song he had composed to honor the young boys name day. Lord Stark had allowed it and the fool, all in motley colors and bells jingling from a funny cap, trotted up.

"There once was a wench in the South!" the fool had begun, singing and making mocking faces. "She made Lord Ned forget his honor! And out popped a little wee one, bastard by all rights. Bastard! Bastard! Not a true son, to shame the Warden of the North. The North! The North!

"Now the little Bastard, shame of the Starks, sits up front. Pretending he's something he is not!"

He remembered Lord Manderly's face draining in color, and the rest of the hall sitting uncomfortably. Eddard Stark had been furious but Jon had been too shamed. Tears had poured from his face and Catelyn had stared stonily at him. Accusatory as if he was the cause for all the ills in her life.

"Are you alright?" a voice cut into his thoughts.

"I'm fine," Jon said, his teeth suddenly seemed to be glued to his teeth.

A hand gently laid on his. He glanced up at Sansa, sitting next to him, a disbelieving look in her eyes. "Then you wouldn't mind letting go of that fork you've got in a death grip," she said.

He glanced at fork. Indeed. His knuckles were white from the strain he was putting on it. He shrugged as he tried to relax the grip. It took some doing, but he finally let go of the fork. Sansa's fingers circled around his hand and gave them a reassuring squeeze.

There was no words between these two. While he had loved Arya the most out of all of his half-siblings, it had always been Sansa who had been the most perceptive when it came to his moods and state of mind. Even Robb had not been so keen to Jon as Sansa had been. That wasn't of course saying she hadn't at times been insufferably stupid and naïve. Jon could be among the most the first to verify that fact.

But while everyone else had been cunts to him, she had never been that way. When he wept in hiding from the shame at the abuse he had endured, it had always been Sansa who had come to find him and comfort him. Sansa had been a protector of his to Catelyn, and while she had never been as sharp tongued as Arya, he had always appreciated what she did on his behalf.

"Which feast were you just thinking about?" Sansa asked.

"Am I really that obvious?" he asked with a closed mouth half-grin.

"Only to me," Sansa assured him. "Out with it. Which one. Was it Robb's thirteenth nameday? Was it the wedding feast of Lord Umbar? King Robert's visit?"

"My tenth nameday," he admitted to her.

"I was sick that day with the measles," the tall and slender red-headed woman recalled. Jon was still astonished by how much she had grown and matured into such a beautiful woman. A sad woman. "I remember you coming into my room and telling me all about it afterwards."

Jon shrugged. He hated admitted he had run to his little sister for comfort after what had happened. Robb had told him to stop being such a little bitch but Sansa, despite being sick, had held Jon's hand as he told her all about what had happened.

They had talked about everything as children and had been open and honest. Even when Arya had started following Jon around like a little puppy, Jon and Sansa had talked about everything, Jon had thought Sansa was silly when she had told him about how 'Kingly Joffery looks, doesn't he Jon?' And she had teased him when he admitted how much he liked a farmer's daughter. 'Oh Jon! You realize she's not a cow right? She won't moo for you and you can't milk her.'

Which had all the more surprised him when she had refused to tell him about the Knights of the Vale. Why did she hide that important fact from him? His eyes swept to Petyr Baelish, who sat in the corner of the room, talking with Yohn Royce. He had seen the way that Littlefinger had been looking at Sansa and he didn't like it. How much was he pulling Sansa's strings?

A round of hearty laughter broke into the hall as Lady Mormont collapsed onto her plate of food. Jon rose a little to see if she was alright. But the way the others were bantering, he assumed she must have drunk too much wine and had passed out onto her plate of food.

"I'm so sorry Jon," Sansa said softly, cutting into his thoughts as he sat down.

"What?" Jon asked, not glancing at her as his gaze turned to young Ned Umbar and Alys Karstark sat off to the side of the hall, no one sitting near them.

"That you had such a painful childhood here," Sansa said. "The fact you were driven to the Wall because of how you were treated."

Jon turned to his sister and gave her a smile and put his hand on her shoulder. He gave her a gentle squeeze and nodded to her. He had no enmity towards her, and he hoped that she realized that. They were the only two Starks left, Bran was probably dead beyond the Wall and Arya was probably dead as well. Wherever she was.

Turning to the group, he slammed his goblet, empty of all drink, onto the table. Once, twice, thrice. The bangs of metal on wood cut through the laughter and bantering of the hall. Slowly the guests turned to face their King as the King in the North sat on his high seat. The talking died down until the only thing that could be heard was the crackling of the fires in the fireplace.

"We gather here tonight to celebrate the past few weeks of our renewed Kingdom of the North," Jon said, the Lords and ladies gathered shouting their agreement. "The King in the North!" "The White Wolf!" "The Bastard of Winterfell!" were among the things shouted.

"But we cannot be a Kingdom in our own right without dispensing justice," Jon told his gathered bannermen. "We will define more firmly what we shall do to defend the North from the Long Night and the Others about to attack us, but not today. Today, we shall dispense justice. Ned Umbar and Alys Karstark, come forward before your King."

The two young children stood and with fear in their eyes, they moved forward. All eyes turned on them, many of them unkind. Alys looked a lot like Sansa, just with a more confused and sleepy look to her face and hair kissed by a softer fire then with Sansa. New Umbar looked like what Arya had looked like at his age. He was 10, and his family sword was almost as big as he was.

"Alys Karstark and Ned Umbar," Jon said, the room quiet as anticipation rose high in the room. What would the Bastard of Winterfell do? How would he punish them? "Your families fought for the Boltons. We have prisoners from your two Houses in our dungeons. Some I am sure feel that the best thing we should do is toss you out into the cold and give your lands to more worthy bannermen."

"Worthier," a voice muttered next to him and Jon turned to see Davos Seaworth, who had been focused on his own food, glancing up at him. A small twinkle was in the old man's eyes.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"Nothing," the old smuggler said, turning away from him with a smug smile on his face.

Most of the Lords were nodding their heads and muttered their agreement. Alys and Ned's faces had turned pale and while both children tried to be brave, they were terrified. Although Alys seemed resigned to the possibility of the punishment.

As they walked up, Jon spotted Tormund Giantsbane sitting in the back, his fierce eyes looking between his red beard and unruly hair. Tormund seemed most interested about what Jon would do. Or 'King Crow' as he still liked to call Jon, even though Jon was no longer a member of the Night's Watch.

"And in truth it would be warranted," Jon said, "But we are _not Lannisters!_ We do not hold the children responsible for the crimes of their family. My sister, the Lady Sansa, was beaten by King Joffery because the Lannisters kept losing to Robb. We will not be like that, but nobler!"

His words had turned many of the Lords to muttering their agreement and a few raised their cups in agreement. Jon felt Sansa uncomfortably shifting in her chair at the memory of the abuse she had been forced to endure.

"We fought to regain our home, me and my sister," Jon proclaimed throughout the hall. "And we will not toss out the Umbars from Last Hearth not the Karstarks from Karhold. Winter is here and we can't afford to evict these rightful families from these lands."

" _'My sister and I_ '," Davos said, and Jon glanced sideways at his Hand. The old man was seemingly enjoying whatever he was doing. Jon rolled his eyes and returned to the two children.

"Alys Karstark and Ned Umbar," he called to the two children. "Do you swear fealty to House Stark and promise never to raise swords against us again?"

"Yes, Your Grace!" Alys Karstark said, drawing the long sword and holding it before her in the air. "House Karstark pledges to serve the North."

"Yes, Your Grace!" Ned said, his voice trembling. His could barely lift the sword and hold it in the air the blade swayed back and forth slightly. "House Umbar pledges to serve the North and House Stark."

"Very good," Jon nodded. "Kneel before your King and be pardoned of all past crimes by the Houses you now lead."

The two children did their best to kneel, although Ned was having troubles keeping his sword steady even as they planted the tips of their swords on the ground. The rest of the Northern lords cheered at this pledge and Jon nodded to them, hiding his smile.

* * *

"That was well done, Your Grace," Davos Seaworth said, sitting in a small chamber with Jon and Sansa. "The way you fooled everyone into thinking you were going to punish those two youngsters and then to turn it around. It would have been worthy of Stannis."

Jon understood the praise he was getting. Davos had been absolutely loyal to Stannis Baratheon. To be compared to him was probably something Davos always did, but to find he was being favorably compared was a good thing.

Jon looked at Sansa, whose lips were pursed shut as if she were trying to bite off a remark. He knew she was upset and had good cause to be. He walked up to her and stood over her, the only time he could ever tower over his impossibly tall sister.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I thought we _were_ going to punish them," Sansa said, looking accusingly at him. "You even told me to _tell_ them they were going to be punished!"

"I needed them to be truly worried so when I did give them an out that would give them respect from the other Lords, they were more eager to grab it," Jon explained. But Sansa looked as if she had bitten something rotten. "What?"

"You never told me!" Sansa threw her hands in the air. "Why wouldn't you tell me? We used to talk about everything Jon. Now, now…..you're keeping secrets from me? Playing me for your own political ends?"

Jon raised an eyebrow. He glanced back at Davos, who looked suddenly uncomfortable. Jon looked back at Sansa, wondering who she was to judge him? She had nearly cost them the entire battle by not telling him about the Knights of the Vale.

"What makes what I did any worse then you not telling me about Knights of the Vale?" Jon retorted.

"If you had only listened to me before hand, I told you we needed to wait for more people. Whom did you think I was talking about, Jon?" Sansa asked.

"Oh, I wouldn't know," Jon shot back. "I asked you several times where we'd get more people but you kept telling me 'I don't know! I don't know!'. That type of attitude and pettiness nearly cost us the battle…"

"' _Us_ '?" Sansa jumped to her feet. She was an inch taller than Jon and so she actually looked ever-so-slightly down on him. "There is no ' _us'_ for your losing the battle. You were so reckless you didn't even wait another hour for Ramsey to attack. No! You got over half the army killed before the Knights of the Vale arrived. They arrived because of _me!_ I won the Battle of the Bastards and not you!"

Jon felt his temper arising. He had fought and been wounded during the battle. Where was she during that entire time? Getting an army that she wouldn't even tell her brother? Before he could open us his mouth to counter she held up her finger to stop him from talking.

"If you hadn't been so reckless, Jon, Rickon would still be alive!" she was shouting.

It wasn't until the words escaped her lips that she realized what she had just said. Jon felt like the Wall had come crashing down on him. Sansa's face turned pale white as Jon, grabbing one of his stab wounds that now was hurting, as if responding to the words she had said, staggered to his bed and sank down on it. Jon's hands laced behind his head and he held his head straight to stare at his knees.

"Jon….." Sansa whispered, her voice sounding just as pained as he felt.

Jon could hear the whispered word, then Sansa turn and step fast. The door opened and closed behind him. A few minutes passed of silence, awkward and heavy, passed. Jon nearly forgot that Davos was there as his own guilt and grief nearly drowned him at those words.

"Don't pay your sister much heed," Davos said into the awkward silence. "She's a woman kissed by fire. All those type of women are quick to bite and they bite the most fiercely. My, she reminds me of my own wife. A big chested woman, if you get my meaning. She was a lovely person but she had one of the worst….."

"Cunts," Jon cut him off with the single word.

"Well, I don't know if she had a larger cunt than anyone else." Davos began to which Jon shook his head. That wasn't what he was talking about at all.

"No," he cut him off, still holding his head in his hands. "Ramsey Bolton. Ser Alliser Thorne. Ollie. The Lord of Bones. I have met so many cunts in my life."

"The world is run by the cunts as it were," Davos agreed. "As much as I liked Stannis, he was a major one as well. He would not even do the harmless curtesy of calling his brother Robert as 'loved' because he felt it was a lie."

"And yet, they have never pierced me as badly as Sansa just did," Jon said, standing to his feet and walking over to the solitary window. He looked out in the dark night, the winds howling outside with snowflakes flying, shone by the light of the silvery moon. "I have only wanted to return to the relationship I had with Sansa before I left to take the Black. I love my sister with all my heart, but why did she have to say that? She was the one who gave him up as good as dead when I still wanted to save him. And I tried! I tried so hard…."

"You don't need to convince me, Your Grace," Davos assured him. "And besides, the daggers of the Night's Watch did a far nastier number on you if my poor memory still serve true."

Jon didn't feel like admitting that death was a bit more bad than words. "Trust me, Your Grace," the Onion Knight continued. "Your sister does not mean any of it. She is grieving her little brother, as are you. If it makes you feel any better, go talk to her tomorrow morning and apologize."

"I'm not the one who insulted her, Davos!" Jon exclaimed, slamming his fist on the windowsill. He was most certain she at least believed that he had lost the battle. But it wasn't his fault he wasn't given full information about what he was going to have!

Davos snorted. "Your Grace, when it comes to women, they don't give a fook if you were the one at fault or not," he explained to him. "All they want to here is 'I'm sorry and I will never do it again'. Trust me, works like a charm every time."

Jon rolled his eyes. Why did women have to be so much trouble? First Catelyn treating him like he was shit, Ygritte shot him with an arrow even though she claimed she knew and accepted he hadn't change his allegiances, and now Sansa was always arguing with him.

"By the Gods Old and New," Jon said, turning from the window and looking at Davos. "Women are a handful. And dangerous."

Davos nodded his head more fervently then Jon had ever seen the older man nod his head. Jon leaned back against the window sill, the palms of his hands resting on the stone. This had been Robbs room. Sansa had finally been convinced that since she was the true Stark of the two, she should have Father's and his wife's chambers. Robb's chambers were still a bit larger then what he had been forced to have, even though Jon had been the oldest.

"There is one good thing about your sister when you think of it, Your Grace," Davos said.

"Oh yeah?"

"At least _she_ hasn't stabbed you in the heart."


	7. Epi 1, Ch 6: Samwell Tarly

***Samwell Tarly***

Sam had always had a vision. A vision of a great center of learning, books stacked so high and across such a wide expanse, that he would never be able to read them all. This was a mecca of learning, wisdom pouring from on high. Of wise old men running around, sharing their latest findings, or rediscovering some secret forgotten over the passage of time. Great seeing glasses were pointed to the stars and medical advancements were always on the rise.

That was the vision he had always had of the Citadel of Oldtown. Gilly had once told him he was like a wizard, because he could make sense of scratches on parchment. It had made him smile and his heart leap. That was what he was going to become, a true wizard as it were, when Lord Commander Snow had sent him south to become the new Maester.

Yet the truth was far different. Jon was no longer Lord Commander at Castle Black. No, Dolorous Ed was now in charge, and Jon was King in the North.

And Sam was becoming no wizard.

No, the truth was far less pretty. His life had devolved into a cycle of actual shits, soups that looked like shits, and books that smelt like shits. He was learning very little except how heavy books could actually be, how soup and shit started becoming undiscernible. And to top it off…..no one was taking him seriously.

He was there for a goal and a purpose, and he couldn't help but feel that they were actively trying to suppress his search for the answers he came searching for. He had assumed the Archmaesters would take the threat seriously, but they had laughed at his face when he said he needed to know how to fight White Walkers.

"White Walkers?" they had laughed to his face and snapped their fingers. "What next, Grumpkins and Snarks? There are no such things Tarly, now get back to grabbing that bedpan."

And so it was, almost three weeks later, he was all but dragging his feet towards the exit of the library. An acolyte walked next to him, a young man from Dorne that had decided he wanted to learn then become a Dornish knight.

"So, tell me about the Night's Watch," the young dark-skinned man said. "Is it really as rotten as they say?"

"It's the only thing besides the Wall that's keeping the White Walkers in the North," Sam replied. "So whatever you've heard about the rapists and murderers up there, just remember, they're the ones who will be the first line of defense against them."

"There you go again," the Dornish man shook his head. His voice mirrored everyone else in the Citadel. "I've heard the rest of the acolytes have taken to calling you Sam the Slayer. They say you say you killed a White Walker. Did you really?"

Sam closed his eyes, trying not to get frustrated with this Dornish fellow, who was perhaps a third of his weight and a head shorter. "Are you really interested in knowing?" he asked in exasperation, "Or you just in a gaming mood?"

The Dornish man shrugged. Sam thought not. They passed through the entrance to the library and into the large, cavernous entrance to the Citadel, there was waiting his brown-haired beauty. Sam's mouth burst into a big grin but before he could walk to where Gilly stood, waiting with her own smile, the Dornish man grabbed him.

"Is _that_ yours?" he asked, pointing to Gilly.

"Yes," Sam answered, " _She_ is."

Sam turned to look at the smaller man, whose eyes were gaped wide. "What the Seven Hells, Sam?" he exclaimed, "How did you ever manage that? Does she have any sisters?"

"To answer your second question, she has a lot," Sam answered, stepping up to Gilly and taking her fingers. "And to answer your first, that White Walker I killed…."

"Oh yes," the other man rolled his eyes, and lifting his fingers in the air wiggled them, " _that White Walker'….."_

"She's the reason I killed it," Sam said, to which the Dornish man snorted and shook his head. With a quick bidding of a good night, they parted ways and Gilly, her fingers wrapped around Sam, walked with him towards the exit.

"Where is little Sam?" Sam asked, noting the absence of Gilly's little child.

"You know Jennie from three houses down?" Gilly asked. Sam did know who Jennei was, a rather young woman, who was barren, if he remembered correctly. Child hungry if he ever saw it. "Well, she agreed to watch Sam for the entire evening."

"Why?" Sam asked, frowning. Gilly never let Sam more than a couple hours out of her sight at most.

"You deserve a special night," Gilly announced, "You have done such hard work. There's a nice little baker who told me he would have something special for us."

Sam didn't argue, but he didn't feel like he had worked hard. He needed to find the answers he came here to look for. Yet there was nothing that he could do. No one would let him look for what he needed. He was running out of time, and there was nothing he could do!

A man with a cloak, hood pulled over his face stepped up to them. The man turned when he saw Sam and made for him. Gilly saw the man at the same time that Sam did and tightened his fingers. But there was nothing to fear.

"Evening friend," Sam said, putting on his most charming smile, which honestly made him even more look like an overgrown child then he already looked. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so," the voice, a Northern accented voice with some Essos thrown in as well. The man pulled back his hood and it fell across his shoulders. It was an older man, with a thick set of whiskers running across a lean face. Tired, exhausted eyes looked at Sam, and Sam could feel the weight of the man's sad past, even though he knew nothing of the man.

"How can I help you?" Sam asked, and made a sound, trying to prompt the man to give him a name.

"My name is Jorah," the man replied, and slowly he grabbed his glove and peeled it off. Underneath, was a hand that was scabbed over in sections of hard grey skin. Gilly gasped and shrank back, involuntarily trying to use Sam as a shield from the man and his affliction. The man wasn't looking at Gilly though, his eyes locked on Sam's. "Please, my love needs me but as you see I have Grey Scale. Can you help me?"

 **To be continued in Episode 2: Shall We Begin?**

* _Episode 2 will be started on Thursday. I plan on giving myself two days after every episode to relax before diving into the next one._

 ** _Episode Notes_**

 _*A reviewer pointed out that it felt like I was forcing a deeper connection with Sansa and Jon then was evident in Season 1. Honestly, I was. Truth of the matter though, we only saw Jon really interact with only four of his family, Catelyn, Ned, Robb and Bran. Besides Catelyn, he appeared to have a very good relationship with his family. Sansa on the other hand, we only ever saw her really interact with Catelyn, Ned and Arya. Outside of that, we never saw her with others. So, I used absence of visual evidence of how they interacted to make their backstory._

 _*I might be the only Bran/Meera shipper in the entire Fandom. lol But I always felt that was a direction they could take those two characters. But this Doctor Branhatten they have going on with Bran? Didn't feel realistic to me. Yes, yes, Bran has knowledge of everything, but this was downloaded during the Attack on the Cave and we saw him several times after that in S6, and there was none of this detachment, although if there was going to be this desensativity, wouldn't it have been right after Blood Raven's death?_

 _*There is a theory I heard not too long ago that I really like about what might actually be going on with the Human green seers and the Children of the Forest and how it might not be as beneficial as we first thought. I won't give details because it will spoil the twist I have planned for Bran, but this theory is where I am going with his character._

 _*I loved the Varys/Dany talk on Dragonstone, but I thought it was a conversation that would happen_ _ **before**_ _they arrived in Westeroes._

 _*As triumphant as Dany's arrival on Dragonstone was, why was there no resistance at all in the show to try stopping her crossing or even to garrison Dragonstone after it was abandoned by Stannis? Thus the original character of Magen Lannister was created and Bran's vision of there actually being troops fleeing Dany's arrival on the island._

 _*Edmure Tully got out of his cell! Yay!_

 _*Arya was in the Twins for a whole fortnight and yet she never heard that Jon was King in the North? She was playing as Walder Frey for two whole weeks and not one of "his" many sons said, "Yeah, so what about that Jon Snow character right?" Better to have her actually know the situation._

 _*Now, I do understand that they had short time to get the episodes done and they couldn't hit every bullet point because the Double Ds are done and over GOTs. Still, some of these would have been nice to have answered._


	8. Epi 2: Shall we Begin? Ch 1: Bran

**Episode 2: Shall We Begin?**

 ***Bran***

The sun rose to the east, lightly turning the sky an ever-increasing shade of purple as it began to crest but not high enough to turn the world to the more natural hues of color. Bran sat on his sled as Meera bundled him up tightly. She was determined that they would make it to the Wall that day. It was getting colder though, and her fingers trembled as she finished tucking the furs around him, as if he were a baby she was swaddling. She brought her fingers up to her lips and flew on them several times.

"My fingers are freezing!" she proclaimed as she flexed them, as if Bran couldn't realize that just by looking at her.

"I can think of a few ways to warm them up," Bran blurted out, then flushed with embarrassment as Meera cast a less then amused glance at him. Yeah…..Bran hadn't really thought that comment through before speaking it.

"You only wish," she snorted, grabbing the rope handles and turning to face the Wall. "I really hope we are as close as you say."

"The birds never lie," he replied. He had been warging every now and again into the local wildlife to check on the progress they were making. If the crow he had warged into before they made camp the night before, they would reach the Wall by midday.

The sled jerked as it started off, Meera pulling him forward with all her might. Once the sled started moving though and she settled more into a rhythm of movement, she was able to relax a bit more and not use nearly as much energy to propel the two of them forward. Bran watched her from the back wistfully. He had never liked being a cripple, but he had quickly (at least in his mind) gotten over the humiliation of having to be carried around by giant halfwits like Hodor or girls like Meera.

He had found Jojen's advice about his wolf dreams and raven with the third eye dreams to be invaluable. In the cave, he had learned so much about his powers and had been able to harness them. All the while, he had felt a connection with Meera, and had hoped it wasn't just a one-sided attraction. Then, the moment Meera declared she had feeling for him and actually kissed him…..he had been interrupted by a unprovoked vision! Ever since then, Meera had not shown that same amount of affection towards him, but actually seemed to be keeping a slight distance from him.

"I'm going to try something," he told her as she turned the sled so she could navigate between two large trees.

"Oh yeah?" she asked, "What?"

"When I was with Hodor during….during…." he trailed off, not wanting to say the words. "I heard your voice saying 'Hodor, Hold the Door.' And I have multiple times heard your voice speaking to me in the visions. I wonder if it's possible for me to speak when I'm in a vision."

" _Hold the door_ ," Meera said, mulling the words over in her mouth. Something seemed to be sparking in her mind as she looked back at him, frowning. "Hold the door, Hodor. You said you were with Hodor when he was a child right, and his name was…..Lylis?"

"Wylis," Bran asked, wondering what she was getting on about.

"Right," she said, "If you could hear me in your vision and you said he seemed to notice you were there, is it possible he heard me and it collapsed his mind? Did we cause Hodor to become Hodor by telling him to 'Hold the Door'."

"He did collapse and began to shout 'Hold the Door' and the words eventually collapsed to 'Hodor'," Bran affirmed.

Meera made a small sound as if sudden understanding came over her. She pushed forward a few more feet, and the sled bumped slightly against the tree. She said nothing for a few more seconds but continued onwards. But the implications of what had been done seemed to unsettle her, as it did Bran. Finally, she called back to him.

"So, what were you going to say?" she asked.

"I'm going to have a greenseeing vision and see if I can talk to you as I'm in the green sight," Bran said.

"Are you sure you can?" Meera asked, sounding doubtful. "No one else I've seen with the ability can. What makes you think you can?"

"I'm the Three-Eyed Raven," Bran reminded her, and she cast him a doubtful look. "There is more to my role then just being a lookout. I feel I'm supposed to also be able to give real-time information about what is going on, but I can't do that if I can only speak afterwards. So, I have to try."

Meera seemed as if she was almost certain he couldn't but nodded her head. She turned her head to stare straight ahead and Bran waited for her to say something else. Yet she didn't so he focused his breathing, calming himself as he always had to do before plunging into green-seeing. Then he allowed himself to enter the dreamscape all greenseers go to.

 _Bran was standing in a tent, canvas blowing from an intense wind. The tent flaps were tied down, but even as Bran saw them, the flaps were untied and in stepped a man. He was fair with a strong face, a large nose and a solid chin. Purple eyes looked forth between locks of silver hair._

 _"Your Grace!" a young voice said and following him was a boy of perhaps no more than twelve years, "Shall I fetch your armor?"_

 _"Yes," the man said. "We have little time left before we join battle with Robert and his forces. I need to have my armor, so get it from the armorers. They should have fixed the dents in it by now."_

 _"Yes, Your Grace," the boy said, and turning ran off into the wind storm that was sweeping through the camp._ Was this Robert's Rebellion? _Bran wondered. He turned to watch the silver-haired man as he stepped to a rather auspicious chair for a camp and sat on it. Bran watched as the man grabbed a harp and put it on his lap. He sat there for a few moments, not doing anything but leaning back on his chair._

 _"You think you were worthy of her, Robert?" the man asked, speaking aloud to himself. There wasn't anyone in the tent he could have talked to, unless Bran could somehow have shown himself to the man. His father had heard him at the Tower of Joy, although had he really? "I have shown her a far better time in the short while we've been together then you ever did. She carries my child, could you have ever done the same, you womanizing whoremonger?"_

You're Rhaegar Targaryen! _Bran suddenly thought with a shock. He didn't understand what Rhaegar was going on about though. He seemed to think he was some virtuous person, but Bran knew the story. Lyanna had been kidnapped and raped. He had seen the birth that had resulted from the rape. How could this man be so deluded to think that his aunt was a willing participant in her own rape?_

 _Bran's thoughts of self-righteous indignation were cut in as Rhaegar began to pluck on the harp. At first it was a few random strings, nothing really coherent. And then he began playing a song. It was…..rather good, Bran had to admit. He wasn't sure what song it was, as he had never heard the tune. Yet Rhaegar's fingers flew across them with skill and speed, not missing a beat of the song. It was a rather sad sounding song, and he wondered what had brought upon this melancholy, as Bran watched the face of the Prince grown long and sorrowful._

 _Bran thought he saw something from his peripheral vision and he turned to look at the tent flap. The squire was returning, carrying a rather splendid set of armor. Bran saw many rubies set in the breastplate, although why anyone would need so many of them was beyond his reasoning._

 _"Here we are, Your Grace," the squire said, and Rheagar sighed as he put his hands to the strings._

 _"Alright," the Prince said, standing to his feet, "Let's get….."_

 _There was a sound of giggling that caught Bran's attention and he turned away and saw something in the tent flap. It looked small, almost like a Child of the Forest. It had long hair flowing from either side of its round head and large eyes of gold, unlike the other Children of the Forest. Even as Bran stared at it, it turned to him and held up its fingers to its lips._

 _"Should you really be wasting your time here?" the little man asked, for his voice was indeed male, but very old. "There is so much else to be seen, of more value and import then some foolish troubles of Men."_

 _"What are you talking about?" Bran asked, but the little figure turned and ran into the wind, laughing. Bran followed him to the tent flap, opened it and stepped outside. There were many tents and pavilions set high, all around in so many different colors and hues. Knights and men-at-arms walked through the tent city on foot or horse, going about the preparations for battle. Bran turned to Prince Rheagar's tent and was surprised. Why was he in a small tent and not in a massive pavilion as his rank warranted?_

 _He turned to look for the little fellow, and the entire camp fell away. It seemed to melt as he watched and in its place, was a single man. Where once had stood hundreds of tents and a bustling army, was a single man. The open plains were replaced by a heavy forest and a forger's fire. A man stood next to an anvil, and with leather gloves, grabbed something long and glowing red from the fire. He laid it onto the anvil and grabbing a hammer, began striking the blade, sparks flying from it._

 _He was sweating profusely, covered in grim that was a mixture of soot and sweat. Clang. Clang. Clang. The hammer kept falling, striking the blade. After about a minute of striking it, he switched it to the other side. Then, the blade went into a bucket of water._

 _"Azor," a woman's voice said, "I called you for supper. Did you not hear?"_

 _"Many apologizes, Nyssa," the man replied, giving the woman a kind smile. "I'll be along directly."_

 _The woman planted her hands on her hips and shook her head. "No, Azor. Now! My father always said you would be no good, and I am half thinking he was right. He might have been an ornery son of a bitch, but he was at least with enough sense to know….."_

 _The man named Azor rolled his eyes as the woman continued her tirade and grabbing a tattered rag, wiped it over his face. Bran noticed how little it actually cleaned the grim. The woman pointed to a nearby river that Bran could see through the trees. Azor closed his eyes in annoyance, but did as his lady commanded and began walking towards the river._

 _"Now that," the voice of the little creature said, and Bran could feel long fingered hands wrap around his thighs. "That is important. Azor Ahai, creating Lightbringer."_

 _"Lightbringer?" Bran asked, the name ringing a bell in his memory. He thought about it, and he suddenly remembered. "Old Nan told me all about it. Azor Ahai supposedly forged the sword and helped drive back the White Walkers. I thought it was a myth."_

 _"A myth is merely a story that has forgotten it's factual," the little creature said. "Come now, follow me….."_

"Bran….."

 _"Meera?" Bran asked, her voice cutting into his green seeing. It sounded distressed, as if something was wrong. He needed to get see what was going on. "I have to…."_

 _"No," the Child of the Forest shook his head, "There is no time for her. You must learn all you can about how to….."_

Bran's eyes snapped open and the first thing he noticed was a massive wall of ice directly in front of them. No, not a massive wall of ice. _The_ Wall. They….they had made it.

Next thing he noticed was the blizzard that was sweeping around them. How odd that the Wall was so massive that even in a blizzard he could see it. It was cold, cutting into the furs that were wrapped around him with a biting vengeance.

And the very next thing he noticed was that Meera….she was gone. The sudden realization hit him like a ton of bricks and he looked left and right. Nothing. Fear grabbed his chest and suddenly panic began to fill him.

"Meera!" he shouted, "Meera!" Even as he shouted though, the winds began to intensify, drowning out his voice. He pushed himself forward and he saw a dark collapsed shadow in the snow. It was already half covered in snow.

"Meera!" Bran shouted as he knew that this was very bad.

With as firm a push as he could do, he flopped forward. It took a lot of doing, as he wasn't exactly in the best situation, but he was able to drag himself off the sled. He hit the ground hard, the snow cold enough to stand out from the cold winds. He had landed right next to Meera's leg, which was completely covered in snow. He reached with his hand and grabbing her leg, which even as he felt it, he was sidetracked for a second by how firm and muscular her thigh was. He wondered how it would look without pants…..

"No time for that!" he growled to himself but shook her leg a couple times back and forth. "Meera! Wake up! Meera!"

Letting go of her leg, he pulled himself forward and had the strange sensation of feeling his legs hit the ground, but not actually feeling the sensation in his legs but in his upper back and shoulders. It was odd how the paralyzed lower half of his body could not feel things on their own, but his upper body that was still functional could. Not so much pain, but the forces acting upon his legs were transferred to what was still working.

He was now by her head, only her hair sticking above the snow, the long bouncy curls flying with abandon in the wind. Bran brushed the snow away and with a fur he managed to pull with his arms, he draped it over her body. Her lips were moving, but her eyes were unfocused, and slowly closing.

"Like Seven Hells you'll go to sleep!" Bran shouted and with his other hand began to pat her cheek. He kept patting her cheek, "Stay awake! Meera, stop this Gods damned trick, I'm not impressed! This isn't the time for sleep!"

Meera moaned and something came out of her mouth that was actually loud enough to hear. Yet he couldn't understand. Over the sound of the wind he couldn't make out what was said. Although he was sure that even if he could have heard, it would have been delirious nonsense.

"Yes, yes," he was shouting back over the winds, "Perhaps I was too long in the green-sight. I do apologize for that but you weren't supposed to go to sleep while I was in it!"

Even as he was shouting, he felt a pair of strong hands grab him and pull him up. A man in black clothing and heavy furs was standing before him, others standing beside him with torches lit. Bran glanced down and saw that the man was actually holding him a few inches completely off the ground.

"Can you stand?" the voice shouted at him.

"No!" Bran shouted back, "I'm a cripple!"

"Get the other wildling and let's get back to Castle Black!" the voice shouted and the others obeyed.

Bran was tossed over the shoulder of the man and turning around, the man plunged forth into the snow. There was no way that he could have gotten lost, as the man knew the land all around. Bran had an uncomfortable view of the man's arse though. He lifted his head and looked back, to see the other Nights Watch following, carrying Meera between their arms. One of the men seemed to be lingering and Bran suddenly realized what he was doing as the man seemed to be dragging the sled behind them.

At least he assumed that it was the sled, as the blizzard was getting bad enough that he couldn't see more than a few feet. But he finally let himself drop back down and allowed the Ranger to take him towards the Wall. Jon wouldn't be there, but those that would be would take care of him and Meera. The few Night's Watch that remained were good men.

He didn't know how long he was like that, but soon, blessedly the wind stopped as they emerged in a place with torches that shone out a soft glowing light.

"Get the girl to a bed and warmed up as soon as possible," a man commanded. "Gods knows, we don't need her getting no hypothermia…..at least I believe that's what it's called. If Sam was here he'd know its name."

"Yes, Lord Commander," the Ranger carrying Meera said as Bran was settled back in his sled. Another one of them said in joking, "Not only would he know the name, he'd know every variation of it."

"I wanna stay with Meera," Bran said, looking up at the man before him, the Lord Commander. He was a short fellow, long messy hair flowing behind him. A messy brown beard swept around his worn face.

"Don't worry, lad," the Lord Commander said, "We got you both well in hand. So tell me, Wildling, how long have you been moving down to the Wall? We thought you all were dead."

"I'm not a wildling," Bran said, "I'm Branden Stark, brother of Jon Snow."

The Night's Watch all looked at him and laughed. Even the Lord Commander couldn't help but give a smile. Bran looked around at them all and couldn't believe that they didn't believe him. Didn't they know about Bran Stark the crippled? Surely Jon had told them all.

"Of course you are," the Lord Commander said with a smile that was amused. "Yet everyone knows who Jon Snow is north of the Wall. The most famous of us Crows. You will have to try harder than that to convince me of whom you are."

"You are Eddison Tollett," Bran replied, "They call you 'Dolores Edd', because of how sarcastic you are."

"Again, it wouldn't be that hard….." Dolores Edd began but he stopped as Bran kept talking.

"You went north with three hundred brothers for a Great Ranging," Bran continued. "When you were at the Fist of the First Men, you were with Gren and Samwell Tarly when the horn blew. Blew three notes, and you both abandoned Sam as you fled back to the rest of the Ranging company. Then you commanded the Wall when Jon had to go reinforce the gate when Castle Black was attacked from both sides of the Wall. You went to Hardhome with Jon…"

"Okay!" Edd said, his eyes wide with shock at how much Bran knew of him. "I yield, you are who you say you are. Seven Hells, how did you know all that?"

The rest of the Brothers were giving Bran astonished looks as Bran shrugged. "It's a long and complicated story," he admitted. "We need to get a Raven sent though to Winterfell. Tell my brother that I'm still alive."

"Of course," Edd said, and with a flick of his hand, the sled began to be dragged down the tunnel of the Wall. Bran relaxed as they pulled him through. He was finally at the Wall and safe. Although even as he said that, he knew how quickly that would change.


	9. Epi 2, Ch 2: Davos Seaworth

***Davos Seaworth***

Davos was an old sea dog. He had spent his entire life running back and forth all over the fourteen seas. Avoiding legitimate ships of every flag and nationality. Smuggling had been his trade, something the Iron Bank of Braavos had a very hard time distinguishing from pirates. His life had been exciting, but not so much more then he could handle on any given occasion.

He had had a good wife and a son who was a better man then he could ever have hoped to be. Things had changed for the better when he had decided to take a shipload of onions to Storm's End during the Siege of Storm's End during Robert's Rebellion. It had been an off-the-cuff idea that had sounded bizarre and crazy to everyone. His wife wondered if his balls had finally dropped. His son had wept when he had heard his father was going somewhere dangerous. Salladhor Saan had put it best to him.

"Why in Seven Hells would you want to go to such Storm's End? It's a pile of shit, a dangerous place with equally dangerous people, Davos, my friend?"

Honestly, he had just gotten tired of doing nothing good. Smuggling was okay, to a point. But it offered no chance of advancement in life. He had gotten tired of running from everyone and everything. It had felt good to do something _worthwhile._ Davos could remember the look on Stannis' face when had showed up, loaded down with onions and smelling like them. A thin smile was on his face. It was the only time he had ever seen Stannis smile, as the man had a face that was carved on stone.

When Stannis had taken his fingers, he had actually felt a great sense of relief. Strange, yes. But to know that was the only thing he was going to lose, especially since Stannis had told him, "You realize I must punish you yes? Yet for this good work, I must also reward you. A very interesting quandary you have put me in, Davos."

Some might have laughed at the Onion Knight, but Davos had seen his son get the education he never could have gotten in Flea's Bottom. His son didn't have to see shit running down the street from the Red Keep, where the rich bastards of the world were reliving their bowels of all manner of fickle things. He had fallen in love with the Stannis daughter Shireen, the young princess who despite having Grey scale had an optimistic outlook on life. If Shireen had been one of his own, he would have considered himself even more fortunate then he already did to have that little girl in his life.

Especially when she had taught him how to read. It was so much easier to read now, and ever since her death, he considered it a far greater gift to her memory to use this gift she had bestowed upon him.

It still hurt though. Oh! How much it hurt to think of that beautiful little girl burned by that Red Witch. Melisandre had claimed that Stannis had also participated in it as well to save his army. As much as Davos wanted to ignore that comment, for he knew how much Stannis had loved his little princess, if it was one life compared to many, the math was simple enough.

So he continued to read to honor her memory. And to write. Or attempt to.

"Fuck me!" Davos snapped as the quill refused to work in his fingers.

When he wanted the quill to go up, it seemed to go sideways. When he wanted it to go sideways, it seemed to slant. When he wanted it to go up, the quill would hardly stay on the paper. Don't even get him started on the trying to go down.

Davos had been trying to copy a scroll he had found in Maester Wolkan's stash of raven scrolls here in Winterfell. He had chosen one at random and had read it. It had been nothing of consequence, just an invitation by Lysa Arryn for Catelyn Stark to attend Robin's Name Day. Davos had felt it would be a good practice with something to guide him writing.

Yet the quill was somehow winning. Damn.

"Got you, you bastard!" Davos proclaimed success as after the fifth attempt, he finally had gotten the quill to cooperate and he had finished the first sentence. It was spidery and kind of messy compared to the more flowery writing style of the Lady Arryn, but he had gotten it!

The quill ran out of ink just as he started the second sentence. He had this down at least. He reached over to put the quill tip into the inkwell….only to bump it and send the inkwell tipping forward and spilling ink all over the table.

"No!" Davos cried out, the ink spilling out in an ever-growing mess. Both scroll became covered and soaked with the ink, and to his horror, Davos watched a piece of Stark history vanish before his eyes. He grabbed a rag that he had kept on hand and tried to wipe up the ink even as he used a hand to set the inkwell up right. But it was no use. There was so much excess ink that the rag didn't so much soak any of it up, as he did spread it.

"Having problems?" a thick voice asked.

Davos lifted his head and saw the bushiest beard he ever had seen staring back at him. Tormund Giantsbane was among the most unique and bizarre people Davos had ever met. Perhaps it was the fact he was a Wildling. Or perhaps Davos was just getting too old to understand the ways of people who did not do what he did how he did it.

"No, no," Davos lied rather unconvincingly, "It's…." he struggled for a way to describe what had happened but gave up with a shake of his head. "So what are you doing, Tormund?"

"King Crow asked me to come fetch you," Tormund replied, puffing up his chest as if he had been given the greatest of honors. "Said he needed his Hand present for a meeting of all the Lords. Although why his own two hands aren't good enough I'll never know."

"When you are King you become very needy and need a third hand to catch all the shit," the Onion Knight replied with a shake of his head. The ink was a lost cause. Perhaps the servants knew a way of getting it cleaned. He'd ask them if he saw them. There was one servant here in Winterfell with perhaps the largest set of breasts he had ever seen on a woman. Perhaps she'd like to hear all about smuggling, if one understood his meaning.

Tormund nodded sorrowfully. "He had such small hands, no wonder he needs a third. That and his pecker. I told him once, 'that no god would have a pecker that small'."

Davos snorted. Jon Snow _did_ have some small hands. And his pecker was rather a small thing.

"Like a snail coming out of its shell," Davos agreed with a grin.

* * *

The throne room in Winterfell was just the main hall where the feast the other night had happened. Jon and Sansa were sitting side-by-side, which was something Davos approved of. They seemed to be a little more at ease. Davos hoped they had come to terms with each other after their blow-up the other night. If Jon was as certain with how close the Army of the Dead was, there was no time for sibling rivalry and bickering.

He walked up to the main table, between all the Lords and Ladies that were gathered. Lady Lyanna Mormont gave Davos a shy smile. He gave the little lady a smile and inclined his head. He had seen her giving Jon longing looks. It was rather cute, all things considered.

As he stepped up to the table and took his seat, he spotted a main in chains sitting near the front of the room. The man's face was covered in a filthy beard but he looked with no small measure of hatred at the Jon. No, at Sansa, Davos realized as he followed the man's gaze.

"This meeting of the Lords of the North will now come to order," Jon said, his voice carrying over the room. Honestly, his voice really didn't seem to have the power needed to carry, Davos had noted, but somehow the King was able to force it to do so. "First thing is first; the Long Night is about to befall us. As soon as the Army of the Dead hits the Wall, we will be in the largest fight of our lives. It will be a war for survival. The Dead take no prisoners, they will kill us all and those they kill they will put into their army. I know that Tormund and I are the only ones that have seen the Army of the Dead, and it will be hard for the rest of you to understand the threat. But believe me when I say that it is real."

"Tormund and _myself,"_ Davos said, just softly enough that only Jon would hear it. The King in the North looked at Davos and rolled his eyes. Davos tried to hide his smile of amusement.

"Could you please not do that?" Jon asked, bending close to him.

"Do what?" Davos asked, trying to play innocent.

"You know very well," Jon retorted.

"I am just sitting here, doing my job, Your Grace," Davos shrugged his shoulders.

Jon sighed and returned to the room at large. Davos had always enjoyed listening to Stannis correcting people's grammar. It was fun to do it to others, especially Jon, who seemed to be completely oblivious to what was going on. For some reason, he also got so uptight about it. Gods, how fun it was to do to him!

"Our very first order of business should be to man the Wall properly," Jon told the gathered lords and ladies. "The Wall hasn't been manned properly since the Targaryens first landed in Westeros. Therefore, we need to do so, and repair the forts that have fallen into disarray. That is why I have brought Yohn Chast, the leader of the men taken captive of the Bolton forces during the Battle of the Bastards. Arise, Ser Knight."

Slowly the man in chains rose to his feet, looking firecly proud despite being a defeated man. Davos had a good idea of what was going to happen. If it was, he heartily approved of it. This was not time to waste good men.

"Ser Yohn Chast," Jon said to him. "I now am giving you a choice. You were a commander in the Bolton army and many good men are dead because of you. I could have you executed for helping in betraying the Starks, but you were a man following orders. You fought well, and we need every man, especially good fighters. You have two-hundred men we need against the Long Night. If I were you, I would choose to go the Wall and take the black. You and all your men will be spared if you do this. You will be sent Sentinel Stand, thus giving us a fourth manned castle along the Wall. If you do not, you will be executed and the offer will be given to another man. What say you?"

The Bolton man took a few long deep breaths. His glare was hard as stone, and it didn't recede as he considered the options before him. At long last he nodded his head.

"I will go if I am given one thing, Your Grace," Yohn said.

"You are not in a position to ask for anything," Davos interjected before Jon could speak. "You should be glad to the King doesn't have you and all your men executed."

Yohn shook his head. "It's not a tangible thing but simply a chance to say something that has been on my mind ever since the battle," he explained, turning his fierce gaze to Davos. Davos did not shrink from it. He had seen the dead rise again!

"Say your piece then, Ser Yohn, and be content," the King said, inclining his head.

Yohn turned and faced the King, not giving an inch before the man who had risen above him. "Lady Bolton," Yohn said, turning to Sansa. "I know your history. We all do. You were betrothed to King Joffrey, but your betrothment was broken. You then married Tyrion Lannister, the Imp. Then, Joffrey dies, and Tyrion is imprisoned and condemned to death. Yet suddenly you escape unhurt. You go to the Vale, and shortly after your arrival, Lysa Arryn dies, leaving you as the most senior lady of her family. Then you marry Ramsey Bolton, and shortly afterwards you are at the head of an army and kill your husband, the warden of the North."

"You seem well-informed," Sansa acknowledged, and Davos looked at her. Her face was drawn and pinched as if she were tasting something sour.

"I overheard my Lord Ramsey Bolton speak of it before the battle," Ser Yohn said, and he turned to the King of the North. "Here is what I wish to say to you, o King in the North. Your sister is not to be trusted and she will betray you at the first opportunity. Just as she has with so many others. Before you know it, all these fine Lords and Ladies will be pledging their loyalty to Sansa Bolton-Lannister-Stark, whatever the fook her name is as Queen in the North."

A roar of disapproval came from the mouths of every person in the room. Jon's face had grown angry, a cold fury in his eyes. His fist clenched and raising it high, slammed it down hard on the table. The room grew quiet and Davos could see the rage in the King. He feared that Jon would lash out and kill this man that they needed.

"Are you done, Ser?" Jon asked, his voice cold.

"I am, Your Grace," Yohn said, his head held defiant.

Jon took a few breaths as if to steady himself. "Then you are to go forth to Sentinel Stand where a company of Nights Watch will ensure you stay there," the King said and with a wave of his hand, two guards stepped up beside the prisoner, and turning him around, marched him out of the throne room as quickly as could be. It was a little hard in manacles, Davos knew that only too well.

"Yet that two-hundred will not be enough," Jon addressed the rest of the room. "We will need more men sent there. Tormund, I know I do not command you, the Free Folk remain such. But, if you wouldn't mind, I ask you to go to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. It is the closest to Hardhome and if the Dead reach the Wall, they will probably strike there first."

Tormund jumped to his feet, pounding his chest. "Then that's where we shall go!" the fierce wildling said. "We deserve our revenge." The wildling then took a long look at the others in the room. "It looks like we are the _Night's Watch_ now!"

The northern lords looked none too happy at the jape. Even as Tormund left, presumably to tell his people, Jon continued giving them more instruction on what needed to be done. His instructions were clear to each and every person. A few would ask questions and he would answer them as pointedly as he could. What truly astonished Davos was that dragonglass could kill wights; he hadn't known that.

Not as surprising as Jon telling the North that every man, woman and _child_ was going to have to be armed. Sansa didn't look pleased by that and the room broke out in arguments. Lyanna Mormont was the leader of those who supported Jon's decision while others, such as Lord Manderly, was opposed to the arming of little girls.

"This is not a debate!" Jon finally shouted over the din. "If we don't put everyone of the line that could be there, we will be overwhelmed by sheer numbers without a fighting chance. This is the only way!"

* * *

At long last, after many hours, the room was silent and empty, all except for Jon and Davos. Sansa had taken her leave of them shortly afterwards, claiming she needed to check on a few things around the castle. Davos was leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead.

"Are you alright?" Jon asked him.

Davos nodded. "Yes, Your Grace," he replied. "Been a long day."

"That it has," Jon agreed.

"The older you get, the more you feel the passage of time," Davos said. "I envy the young for that."

"I have felt that way since I was resurrected," Jon said. "I can feel every minute as if it were something slipping away yet ever pounding in my head. A fire that never seems to end. An endless cycle of day and night that seems to both draw me on a path more firm than ever before. Yet at the same time I feel that life is meaningless."

The old man turned to look at his King. The young man looked old, so very old. Even older than he did. It wasn't some physical change to make him look older, he still looked like he was in his twenties. But there was a solemnness to him, a change of mood that fitted more someone in their twilight years than someone in the prime of life.

Davos turned to look at the entrance to the hall. Yes, time had not been kind to any man during these past years. So many good men had died, just when they were needed the most. Oh, how wretched the world had become.

Even as he thought of that, Maester Wolkan entered, holding a raven scroll. The man had a moon-face if there ever was one. Sure, he was a good man, but Davos couldn't help thinking he was one of those people that was like, 'Yeah, I like my new lord. He's much better than my last one, ya'know?' Wolkan was a man who looked lost all the time.

 _Gods, that man needs to get laid_ , Davos thought, _that helps get a man unlost._

"A raven for you, Your Grace," the Maester said, stepping up to the High Table.

"Give it to Ser Davos," Jon said, resting his face in his hand.

Wolkan turned to Davos, and handed him the scroll. The man had some fat hands, Davos couldn't help noticing as he took the raven scroll. The seal wasn't broken, so Davos wondered how Wolkan had decided that it was for the King? But as he looked at the seal and saw it was the Night's Watch seal, he figured that was a good indication for whom it was.

"The Night's Watch seem to have word for us," Davos said as he busted the seal, and unraveled it to read it.

"Perhaps Dolores Edd has forgotten where the latrines are," Jon snorted.

"Whomever wrote this has as poor handwriting as I do, Your Grace," Davos replied and began to read. " _Dear Jon, you might have not been expecting this, but I'm at Castle Black with Meera Reed and have important news to tell you. If you do not come to Castle Black, I will get there as soon as Meera is okay..."_

"What by the Old and New Gods are they talking about?" Jon asked, seeming to be more annoyed then curious. So annoyed, he had interrupted Davos. Davos didn't take it personally though.

" _…but the Army of the Dead is about to move. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Your brother, Bran."_

Davos frowned at the words. That was an odd thing to say. All the Brothers of the Night's Watch were brothers by oath. So saying 'your brother', didn't seem to make any sense. And what was the nonsense at the end.

"Wait….." Jon sai. Davos turned to look at the King who was looking at him as if something caught his interest. "What was that last two sentences?"

" _Were,"_ Davos corrected, "Let's see. _The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Your brother, Bran."_

Jon mouthed the words quietly and seemed to be mulling them over. Then suddenly his eyes widened as something dawned on him. He jumped to his feet and the chair fell to the floor with a hefty clatter. Davos wasn't sure what was going on as Jon called to his guards.

"Get Lady Sansa quick!" he shouted to the guards and with a quick look back and forth, the guards nodded and turned from the room and headed off at a quick run. Davos stared at him as Jon began to pace back and forth behind the table, muttering to himself excitedly.

Soon, Sansa returned, looking more than a little confused, and a little out of breath, the guards close behind her. Next thing Davos knew, Jon was seizing the scroll from Davos fingers and ran up to Sansa and wrapped her in a tight embrace and lifted her a few inches off the ground. She grunted from the bear hug she was being given.

"OK…..I love you too Jon," Sansa said trying to gasp for breath, her arms pinned to her sides, "But I like breathing too. What's going on?"

Jon put her down and held up the scroll in front of her, laughing. "Bran's alive and at Castle Black!" he said, laughing. Sansa's eyes grew wide and seizing the scroll, read it, then with tears of joy bursting forth, she grabbed Jon in a new tight embrace.


	10. Epi 2, Ch 3: Jaime

***Jaime***

Jaime grunted as he gripped the metallic hand and pulled it off the stump of his arm. The inside had an uncomfortable habit of chaffing the stump, which had scarred over in a gnarly round tip, the flesh having grown over the wound in a rather sick mockery of what had been his hand. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, taking a few measured breaths.

Oddly, he had learned how to meditate. This was not something most knights did, but Jaime had learned it. He had once told Catelyn Stark, "There are no men like me", and that also included knights. Today had not been a good day. Far from it.

Bronn had decided it was as good as any to practice their swordsmanship. Jaime thought it was going to be a regular session, but no. Bronn had let leash on him a fury he had not seen from the sell-sword. His attacks came hard and fast and only by the sheerest of lucks was he capable of holding his own.

"What has gotten into you today?' Jaime asked after a brutal elbow to the chin that drove him back.

"Not me," the sell-sword replied, "But the goat-fucking Dothraki are on our shores. Man to man, they are the best fighters I've ever seen. Their arakhs might not penetrate armor, but trust me when I say they are faster and more skilled with their blades then most people in the whole damned world. Armor does little good when up against a skilled warrior, and you need to get a whole fucking lot better if you plan on tangling with any of them."

Jaime had found his reasoning sound and had fought harder. Yet in the end, Bronn had still laid him flat time and time again. When he had still had his sword-hand, there was few who could ever have matched him. Now, all there would need to be was a seven-year old girl and she could shank him up his ass and he'd be unable to do little to stop them. He was improving, but he always found it so frustrating that this sell-sword, who had above-average but not great skills, could always fuck him left and right.

There was a knock at his door and he opened his eyes. Who was disturbing his rest? Couldn't they just go away?

"Go away," he decided to be blunt and honest. "I'm in no mood to talk with anyone."

The door swung open despite his protests and Cersei walked into the room, wearing her sable-black dress that she always sported now. There was a sense of a predator to her, and he instantly felt himself instinctively tense. Cersei said nothing but approached him, walking across the floor of his chambers until she came to the single support pillar in the middle of the room and stopped. Now that she was so close, Jaime could see that her dress was lined with small hard metal wires that stuck out like some weird spikes.

"I asked you to come to my chambers last night," Cersei said to him. No 'hello, Jaime'; no 'how are you brother?'. "Yet you failed to show."

"As I recall you commanded and I ignored," Jaime corrected her. Her breasts stood prominent in the dress she was wearing, the dresses sable cloth having the effect of accentuated all her curves. Despite mentally not being in the mood, his manhood stiffened.

 _Fuck_ , Jaime thought to himself. _Even when I'm furious at her, I still get hard in her presence._

"Besides," Jaime continued, "Joanna was stolen while I was at the remnants of the Great Sept. If I ever find the little shits who took her…."

"You walked here I assume," Cersei cut him off. "Then you could have come to my chambers."

Jaime looked down at the golden hand. Now that he looked at it, he realized that the gold no longer shone as brightly. Whose gold had it been that had forged it? It wasn't like the mines around Casterly Rock were pumping out any more gold.

"Take your clothes off."

Jaime turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "I don't think….."

Cersei was on him and her hand shot down. Jaime grunted as she grabbed his crotch. A cruel smile was on her lips as she looked at him. Her eyes were wild with lust…..and Jaime saw little in the way of love there.

"You must not be _that_ angry with me," Cersei noted, her eyes level with Jaime's. "Now, take your clothes off."

Cutting through the fog that was beginning to form in his mind as his little head started taking control, Jaime reached out with his one good hand. He was going to push her back gently but firmly by her shoulder. He wasn't in the mood for this.

"Cersei, no," he said, then with a gasp of pain drew his hand back. The wires on her dress had pricked his hand. That was weird, he had never bled during sex before. Because there was no doubt in his mind that was where this was going. Whether he wanted it to or not.

"Shall I have Ser Gregor come in here and pin you down as I have my way with you?" Cersei said, squeezing extra hard. " _Take. Your. Clothes. Off._ "

The next morning came and Cersei sat with her back to Jaime, standing to her feet. Jaime leaned back on the bed, the blankets pressed down on his cold body. Strangely, he had been taken, not once, but three times the night before. She had mocked his manhood inability to perform for a third time as well as the ones beforehand.

"The Lords of Highgarden are showing up today," Cersei told him, standing up and walking to a table, standing in all her naked glory. "Even Willas the Crippled and Garlan the Gallant are coming. Lady Olenna will rue the day she forgot that she had Mace still has two children. I will sway them to our cause."

Jaime stared at the ceiling as she listed all the plans she had made. Each stone was roughly the same shape and size, yet he had a strange notion as he stared at them. If they were all to fall, how quickly would he be killed? Could he roll of the bed fast enough and get underneath?

Could he reach Cersei? Would he _want_ to save her? After returning from captivity with Brienne of Tarth, she had only given him a hug. She had not kissed him, in fact, it was months after his return before she would even have sex with him, and it was because he had forced the issue. Had it been rape? She had agreed to it, but there was no doubt in his mind now that he thought about it that he had to force himself upon her before she agreed.

There were more and more times as he thought about it. Where she had treated him coldly and indifferent, only to approach him when emotion was running at their hottest. The more he thought of it, the less he was certain of her true feelings towards him.

Seven Hells, she wouldn't even tell him about his dead child, Tommen. Except to call him traitor. God Gods! If he had been Tommen's age and married to a girl as earth shattering beautiful as Margery, he'd have tossed himself out the nearest window when she had died as well!

"Have you ever loved me?" he asked, staring at the ceiling.

"What a foolish question to ask," Cersei said, "I gave my everything to you. Yet you ask me that question? You use me as you wish, but if I use you in turn, then I don't love you? You are really the stupidest Lannister."

There it was. Lies. Accusations. Insults. That was all Cersei had ever really given him. One of the times he had visited Tyrion, he had mentioned something. It was after his visit about that one cousin. The one who smashed the beetles. Whatever his name was. Tyrion had said something about Cersei knew more about men then Jaime would ever seem to know about women. Had he been hinting at something?

"I think we need a break," he finally said. There it was. Even as he said it, something deflated inside of him. Yet that something was replaced by a strange relief. "We need time apart from each other."

"There will never be a break between us," Cersei said firmly. Jaime turned to her and she stood before him. Her full breasts were staring at him like lances but he paid them little heed. Scorn was in Cersei's face. "You can never leave me Jaime. Where would you go? North? Oh yes, that bastard would have your head on a spike. West? Until Highgarden joins us, they will willing hand you over to that little bitch that thinks to take my kingdom from me.

"To Dorne? Oh yes, then those cunts down there will do the same thing to you that they did to _my_ daughter. You never were a father to her, and she was my child, far more than she ever was yours.

"So my fool-headed brother, you will not leave me. You have nowhere else to go that won't kill you out-of-hand or hand you to the Dragon bitch who will execute you for what you did to her father."

Jaime felt his face grow stone hard in fury. He never said _leave_ , he said they needed time apart. Cersei was so paranoid she saw treason in every shadow and in every deed? Was that what everything was to be like from now on? All the while, Cersei's lip with curled in a sneer.

"Now get dressed so we can meet our guests," she commanded, grabbing her dress to put it on. "They should arrive here at any moment."

* * *

Jaime stood at Cersei's side. Not out of choice. He'd rather have been standing in the upper gallery, where the ladies of the court were wont to hang out. No, Cersei had commanded him to stand by her side. So, in full red armor, minus a helmet and shield, Jaime stood, on one side with her Queen's Guard standing at the foot of the dais.

His golden hand rested on the golden handle of the Valyrian steel sword. It had been Joffrey's. _Widow's Wail_ he had called it. That was actually one of the stupidest names he had ever heard. Jaime wondered what Cersei would have said if he had voiced that opinion.

He looked down to the Tyrell bannermen. He spotted Randall Tarly and his son…..what was his name? Rickon, he believed. There were other bannermen there as well, such as Leyton Hightower, which was in Oldtown. He also believed he spotted Lord Guthor Grimm, head of House Grimm of the island Greyshield. There was about a dozen others, but he couldn't name them all.

Yet the ones he was most interested in was the two Tyrells. Their bannermen stood around them, as if thinking this was a trap. But you had Willas Tyrell, the new Lord of Highgarden sitting on a chair. One of his legs was crippled, twisted in an odd fashion, so a chair had been fetched for him. Wooden crutches laid across his lap, as if they were a pair of broadswords. He had a stern face, flowing locks of auburn hair on either side.

Then there was his brother. Jaime had heard Garlan Tyrell was even more skilled then Loras, yet he did not actively go out seeking adventure. No, he stayed at Highgarden unless need took him away, but he honed his skills daily. Jaime had never actually fought him before he had lost his hand, so he wondered how well the boy would have stood up to him back when Jaime was in his prime.

Cersei was spouting words of hate and venom towards Daenerys Targaryen, listing off her crimes one by one. How she had crucified almost two-hundred nobles. She had burned a noble alive by dragonfire without giving him a chance to prove his innocence. How she had beheaded two nobles even as they tried to surrender in Mereen.

"If we do not stand together against the Mad King's daughter," Cersei proclaimed as she came to her climax, "We will see a new era of terror that will outshine her own fathers. We must resist or we will be fed to her dragons."

"Exactly," Randall Tarly said, "Dragons. Reports tell us she has three full-grown dragons. How do you propose we take them down?"

Qyburn had been silent this entire time but at those words, he stepped forward and nodded to the Lords. "If my Queen will permit," he said, looking sideways at her. Jaime saw the subtle nod and Qyburn continued. "Back during Aegon's Conquest, one of his dragons was taken down by Dorne. We are looking into how they did so and will be replicating them. Also, they are _not_ invincible. One of her dragons was wounded in the fighting pits of Mereen. And if they can be hurt….."

"They can be killed," Garlan finished the thought.

Jaime looked at the gathered assembly, wondering which way they would turn. They did not seem so pleased by what they had heard about the Mother of Dragons. Some of them were squirming uncomfortably as she had stated these. But Willas was not so easily swayed, and he had eyed the Queen with a particular cold fury.

"Yes, yes," the Crippled said, waving his hand. "She has three large dragons and she has done such bad things in Essos. What makes you think that this will be the case here in Westeros?"

"She has landed a hundred thousand Dothraki on our shores," Jaime told him. "Sharp Point and Stonedance both sent ravens stating the Dothraki were attacking. We have heard nothing from them since then. Considering the Dothraki are a culture that rape and pillage, can we really afford not to take her as a serious threat?"

Willas was not moved though. "That may be as bad as you state," he said, "But let us look at the facts, shall we? You, Cersei Baratheon, or Lannister, it's so hard to know what you think of yourself now days. Daenerys didn't kill our sister, brother and father in a storm of wild-fire. That was you. All you. Our grandmother may have no love for us as she did Loras and Margery, but she is a rather good judge of character. It wasn't Daenerys that let the Faith Militant arise and humiliate our house. No, it was _you!_ Why should we trust you? _"_

"Blah, blah blah, blah blah."

Jaime turned his gaze, as did the other lords at the sudden interruption and mocking of their lord. Jaime's eyes caught a man, with a closely shorn beard and dark eyeshade that made his eyes look even more crazy then they would have been without. He wore tight fitting leather clothing and beside him walked several men, a few in Ironborn armor and the others in Lannister. Wait, was that Magen, his third-cousin with this man?

"Your complaints hurt my head," the man said, walking forward with purpose and a force of personality that the Lords of the Reach parted for him. "You are thinking of only the negative. This person did this and that person did that. Tell me, my crippled one, have you always been so negative, or did you grow into it?"

"Watch your mouth!" Garlan said, reaching for the handle of the sword at his hip. "Or I'll cut your bastard tongue out!"

The man looked down at the sword with a look of a man that said 'really?' He looked up, and reaching out, patted the Tyrell on his face.

"Take it from a man who _has_ cut out all the bastard tongues on his ship," the man said, "You never use the sword for that. The dagger on the other hand, much more precise."

"Who are you?" Cersei asked, leaning forward, frowning at the man.

The man turned and raised his hands. "Euron Greyjoy, King of the Salt Throne, at your service, Your Grace," with that, he lowered himself with a great bow.

 _A pirate king_ , Jaime thought disgustedly. He had already put down one king before. Who did this man think he was to be any different.

"How did you get past the Targaryen fleet?" Qyburn asked.

"I am the God of the Seas," Euron said, rising to his full height and putting the pointer finger of each hand on his chest. He began to move forward with a cocky air. "Essosian crews are adequate, but as your man Magen would attest, they are all about brute force. They have no true subtlety and it is easy to avoid the adequate when you are superb. Oh! You are a big one!"

Euron stepped up to the Mountain, who took his own step forward. Euron looked up at the Mountain, slowly bobbing his head up and down as he examined the specimen of man that was before him. Then, with a small smile of amusement, he took a step back and admired the Mountain as he took his own step back.

"What do you want?" Cersei asked, intrigue filling her voice.

"No matter what you do," Euron replied, "You will always be outnumbered in this war. What can the two of you, Lannisters and Tyrells put into the field? Fifty thousand? I know for a fact that the Lannisters only put half of their army in the field during the War of the Five Kings, which if I remember my facts correctly, was sixty thousand to begin with. But no matter that, you have Dorne which by itself has that many men. Then you have the Dothraki. And the cock-less Unsullied. Not to mention the dragons. They lack one thing. Ironborn."

"My understanding was that your niece and nephew joined the Dragon Queen," Jaime stated.

"Do not worry, when you have two good hands like me," Euron said with a wicked grin, "You can do anything. Even please any woman you want." He pointedly looked at Cersei, although his eyes weren't directed at her face.

"And you plan on helping balance out this conflict?" Cersei asked, "What have you to do and what do you want?"

Euron nodded. "I have three-hundred ships that have the best crews in the world!" he proclaimed, "I will turn the massive fleet of that Dragon bitch into kindling! For my reward, I want to be by the side of the most beautiful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms and rule beside her!"

Jaime couldn't believe the audacity of this character. Whom did he think he was? Cersei was not one to give into the desires of others. She was all about her, he was more than certain of it now. What Seven Hells would have to freeze over before she would ever agree to share power with anyone?

"Help me win this war," Cersei said with an amused tone. "You will then learn that there has been an opening in regards to my affections. Win, and you will have all you desire."

Jaime turned to her, shock on his face. He was taken so by surprise by this that he couldn't even seem to comprehend what had just happened. He barely noticed as Euron waved his goodbye and announced that he would be back soon enough and not to worry.


	11. Epi 2, Ch 4: Dany

***Dany***

The waves crashing against the shore and the rocks awoke Daenerys from her sleep. It was a constant sound, a low rumble of waves crashing against the island of Dragonstone. It was a rather exciting to wake up in the ancestral home of Aegon before he conquered the Seven Kingdoms. It gave her a sense of purpose that while strong before, was now the single most important thing in her life.

No longer was she focused on free slaves. No longer did she have to deal with Wise or Master Masters. Her dragons were massive and it was to be expected that they would grow even larger as time went on. Tyrion had advised her to go to Dorne, start from a position of strength. Yet she was strength. She needed to remind people that she was a Targaryen, not some Dornish woman. Thus it had to be Dragonstone.

Servants entered her chambers, Dothraki handmaidens. She could have honestly chosen anyone to be handmaidens, but she had always liked Dothraki women. By marriage, she was Dothraki and it had given her, at least in her own mind, every right to rule not only Khal Drogo's Khalasar, but every khalasar. She was a goddess among men, and the Horde understood that.

"Good morning, Great Khaleesi," the eldest of the three, a woman of middling age said, bowing her head low.

"Good morning, Jeeza," Daenerys said, pushing herself up in her bed.

"Are you ready for us to change your bedding and cloth you?" Jeeza asked. These Dothraki women had been diligent in learning the customs by which the people of Westeros served their ladies. They were actually quite good at it. The Dothraki were generally very capable of anything they set their minds to. That was why they defeated the Kingdom of Sarnor with such great ease in ages past.

"Yes," the Mother of Dragons said, "That would be lovely, thank you."

Her servants began moving about the room as she rose her the bed, casting aside the blankets. The cold stone of the floors made her wince but she paid it little heed as she walked across the floor to the window that looked out upon the Narrow Seas. Her chambers faced towards Essos, not Westeros, but that was fine. It served to remind her daily of what she had left behind. Vast plains of grass that were dying and deserts that sucked all moisture even from the blood.

"Khaleesi!" one of the women said, and she turned back to the servant. "Your moons blood is upon you!"

"I am very well aware of that fact, Neela," she chided the woman. Yes, that curse to all women was upon her. Khal Drogo's death had actually seen a good while where she had not bled. Perhaps it had to do with her miscarriage. Yet by the time Astapor had fallen, she was back into true form.

"Which dress would you like to wear today?" Jeeza asked.

"Well, I have my allies gathering today so we can discuss my plans to invade Westeros," Daenerys said, turning back to look across the grey sea, "The black one will serve most nicely."

* * *

Daenerys tried not to grimace as a cramp tore through her lower abdomen. Women saw more blood then men in their lifetime, yet it never really got easier. How ironic then that so many women found the sight of blood so distasteful and swooned at the sight. Yet women could be just as ironclad as men and sometimes the far more vicious.

As if to accentuate her point, most of the people around the table were women. Yara Greyjoy, who had been wronged by her uncle and wanted revenge on his and take what was hers by right. Ellaria Sand wanted revenge on the Lannisters for what they had did to Oberyn. Olenna Tyrell wanted revenge for the deaths of her family, also at the hands of the Lannisters. Then there was Missandei, who went from being a brow-beaten slave to a tough nut, a woman who took no shit from anyone and would speak her mind at the cost of being viewed as bitchy.

Daenerys smiled as she looked at all these women filled with vengeance and a need to make people pay. She wanted to harness this power and roar through the Seven Kingdoms, toppling those who had her throne. It was hers by birth-right, and that golden-haired woman who sat on _her_ throne needed to understand the extent of her folly before Daenerys had her killed for her crimes.

Daenerys' first impulse had been to fly her three dragons to King's Landing and torch the Red Keep, burning the city clean of the filth that had defiled her fathers' city. She also wanted to kill Jaime Lannister most of all for what he had done to her father. Yes, she had accepted it that he had probably done what was right. Yet Jaime Lannister would receive no mercy from Daenerys Targaryen for betraying his oath to her father.

"Our best chance is to attack the city while we have the numbers to swarm over the walls of King's Landing," Yara proclaimed, slamming her fist on the table. "Within twelve hours, we will take the entire city by storm."

"The Dothraki are on Massey's Hook having subdued Sharp Point and Stonedance," Tyrion reminded Yara. "It would take days to load all hundred thousand of them back up. The Unsullied will be no match against even a skeleton defense. Trust me, I defended King's Landing from the foremost military mind in the entire Seven Kingdoms and he had far greater numbers then we'd hit King's Landing with."

Tyrion Lannister, perhaps the only man from Westeros who had not betrayed her in one fashion or another. Also, the only man who wasn't dead or about to die. Ser Barristan, she tried not to let her sorrow show for the death of that man. Dying in the gutters so far from his homeland. _And Jorah….._ she closed her eyes for a few seconds, fighting back the new tears that threatened to come forth.

How she had not realized just how much she cared for Jorah until he was terminally ill! He had been her most trusted friend and she knew his feelings towards her. She opened her eyes to look at the table, focusing on it instead. The entire table was shaped to look like Westeros, even the lands beyond the Wall. Had Aegon wanted to go conquer the lands beyond the Wall? The Land of Ever Winter as they were called? No, Always Winter. That was right.

Could he have taken those lands as well? What resistance would he have faced beyond the Wall? The Wildlings for sure, but they were a rabble.

"Also," Tyrion's voice cut into her thoughts, "There are tricks in the city I didn't employee during the Siege. Trust me, we will be safer here."

"Safe?" Ellaria snorted. "We did not bend the knee to Daenerys Targaryen so you could play it safe. We are for revenge! Your Grace…." Ellaria turned her attention to the Queen. "Why do you not take your dragons to King's Landing and roast them out?"

"I do not want to be Queen of the Ashes," Daenerys said to the older woman, meeting the woman's rage filled eyes in her own steely gaze. "If I do that, no one will follow me because they feel it is right. They will only follow because they were forced to."

"Your ancestor Aegon brought fire and blood to this continent….." Ellaria stared but the small silver haired woman lifted her hand to stop her.

"I am not Aegon the Conqueror," Daenerys reminded her forcibly. "As Missandei here will tell you, I come not to offer death to all, but to break the chains. Break the wheel that keeps crushing everything underneath its weight. No, we will not."

Daenerys turned her gaze to Tyrion and the dwarf held hers and a silent nod of understanding passed between them. It had been Tyrion that had talked her out of her Fire-From-Above approach to the Conquest of Westeros. It was he who had talked about "Queen of the Ashes" and she had heard his points of view. She would follow his lead on how best to take the Seven Kingdoms.

"Our war must be seen as Westerosians fighting to put Daenerys Targaryen on the throne and restoring the Targaryen Dynasty," Tyrion told the gathered women. "My sister will no doubt be trying to rally the people around an idea of this being a foreign war and there will be little that rally the peoples of the realms faster than if they think Daenerys plans to enslave them to the Dothraki. Grey Worm and I have devised the best approach to combat this idea. Highgarden and Dorne will advance on the capitol as one force, meeting up at the mouth of the Prince's Pass that connects Dorne to the Reach. They will besiege the capitol."

"Will not your brother try to disrupt us connecting together?" Olenna asked, following Tyrion's finger to where he was pointing.

"The Lannister army is severely depleted from the War of the Five Kings and with the North having broken away, they will find no succor from them," Tyrion stated. "I have sent a raven to Winterfell to tell them Queen Daenerys wishes to ally herself with the North."

"Not blood likely," Olenna snorted. "A fools' errand if I do say so myself, and I do say so myself."

Daenerys turned to her and frowned. She could understand the reservations of trying to get a man to bend the knee to a woman, but to outright state that it wasn't a good idea and that it was foolish was unexpected.

"Tyrion says that Jon Snow is a good man," Daenerys stated.

"Your Grace," the Lady of Highgarden stated, turning her no-shit face towards her. "Jon Snow may be a bastard, but I can assure you the crimes against the Stark family are not easily forgotten and he will not dare come south."

"What crimes?" Daenerys asked. She genuinely did not know what Olenna was talking about.

" _Your_ father burned _his_ grandfather alive and then tortured his uncle into strangling himself trying to free his father," Olenna shook his head. "I was there when that happened. One of the most despicable things I had ever seen. And this was King Arys response to the two men trying to get back their daughter, who had been kidnapped by your brother Rheagar. Trust me, your Grace, Jon Snow will not dare venture south. Starks do not do well in the South."

Daenerys felt suddenly so tired. The combined might of her moons blood and the weight of the crimes committed by her family would be the literal death of her. She was having to overcome a weight of stupidity that her family had shown they were capable of only added to all the things she was having to deal with.

"I am not my father," she finally said, giving each word as much weight as she could. She could do quite a surprising command voice, years of practice had that effect. "The Stark, no one for that matter, has anything to fear from me."

"What about vengeance for the death of my paramour?" Ellaria asked suddenly, with a fierceness to her voice. "You promised us blood and revenge!"

"There will be enough blood when I go to King's Landing and exact the punishment on both Cersei Lannister and her brother who murdered my father," Daenerys snapped. "And you would do well to mind your tone with me! Those who refuse to come to a bad end."

Ellaria's nostrils flared and it was obvious she wanted to say something else but she let go of it and bowing her accepted what had been said. Tyrion began again, talking about how the war would be conducted.

"The Dothraki are to be deployed only as a last measure," Tyrion said. "We will use the Unsullied as a mobile force, defeating any of the small armies that will be raised to defend King's Landing. Meanwhile the Fleet will blockade Blackwater Bay. I don't think we'll need to unleash the Horde, but we will if the opposition proved too much for Highgarden and Dorne."

"Dorne will never be overcome!" Ellaria Sand proclaimed, holding her fist in the air.

The meeting would continue for a few more hours until all had said their piece. Daenerys stood up and nodded to Olenna who moved close to her and said in a low voice, "My dear, Tyrion is a clever man. Yet you want the secret of living a long life?"

"Oh?" Daenerys asked.

"Ignore him," Olenna said. "Clever men get themselves and anyone who listen to them dead. I've ignored all the clever men and I am still alive. You are a dragon, unleash it!"

Daenerys was still thinking about that as Olenna left the room. Tyrion was talking with Ellaria, coming just up to the bottom of her breasts. She listened in on what they were saying, focusing on their mouths and the sound of their voices. When one was disciplined enough, they could do so.

"I should be able to get Dorne's army near Nightsong in three weeks-time," Ellaria was saying. "As long as Lady Olenna is able to cow her grandchildren into getting the army there, we should be able to move quickly."

"Very good," Tyrion replied, "Oh, I was wondering one thing. How is my niece?"

"Your niece?" Ellaria replied with a frown.

"Yes, the Princess Marcella," Tyrion pressed, "I know that Prince Tristan is dead and that's why you are in charge of Dorne. Yet I have heard nothing about Marcella. Is she alright?"

Ellaria said nothing for a few seconds. Daenerys watched the other woman closely, and could see the wheels in the woman's mind working. It was a simple enough question to her mind. Why was the other woman hesitating?

"She is no longer in Dorne," Ellaria replied. "Her father came and fetched her. I have no clue of the details after that or where she is."

"Oh, good," Tyrion said with a bright smile. "I do look forward to seeing her."

"Yes," Ellaria said, and Tyrion bid her farewell. Even as Daenerys watched, she could not help but think that a cruel smile was playing across her lips as the dwarf turned away from her. Soon enough, the room was emptied except for Tyrion, Daenerys and Missandei.

"So," Tyrion said, plopping himself on a chair near Highgarden, running his hand over it as if he were to wipe it away.

"So," Daenerys agreed.

"Is this a common type of meeting between the Lords and Ladies of Westeros?" Missandei asked. The hand-maiden/advisor had been silent through the talks, seeming to be most intrigued by how these people would compose themselves in the meeting.

"Rhaesh Andahli," Daenerys said before Tyrion could respond.

"Your Grace?" Missandei asked.

"Rhaesh Andahil," Daenerys repeated, "The Land of the Andals. The impressive conquest of the Andals over the First Men were known even to the Dothraki. A small population armed with iron weapons, easily conquered the bronze aged weaponary of the First Men and the Children of the Forest. The Dothraki have many tales of this conquest even though many are their own invention and have no truth. They have forever called Westeros 'Rhaesh Andhali' in honor of this conquest."

Tyrion shrugged. "I can't say anything about the Dothraki mindset for this war," he replied, "I can however tell you about the nature of this meeting. And yes, Missandei of the Island of Naath. That was about what we can except to be the norm of these meetings."

Missandei seemed to have a sour taste in her mouth as she considered this. Daenerys had always valued Missandei as a person, and she had seen her transformation to become such a strikingly attractive woman, not just in form but also in personality and determination. So, to see her soft features unsettled was not something she cared for.

"If that is indeed the case then I do not like it," the woman said, crossing her arms in front of her. "So much shouting and voicing of opinions. You did not see this in Essos to be sure. One person said what they would and the rest listened."

Daenerys couldn't disagree with that. She did indeed mean to break the wheel. Yet the way she meant to do so was to make these High Lords and Ladies to never oppose her. They would bend the knee to her or they would be destroyed. It would only be by having complete devotion to the Crown that there wouldn't be another war in three-hundred years. She did not want her descendants to have to fight this war again.

Before she had died, Daenerys had gone to Mirri Maz Duur and had spoken to her one last time. There, the godswife had told her that she would never again have children. That her womb would be dry and never quicken. However, a few months later, she had begun to bleed as normal. Much of her time with Daario had been to see if she could indeed have a child. She had not gotten pregnant by him, although it wasn't from lack of trying. So, she supposed the man was to blame and not her.

Yet if she never had another child….well…..the witch was dead and she wasn't. There were ways to ensure her dynasty lasted forever. There would be no thought on that now. Now, she just wanted to try to forget about those women.

"Hopefully we can convince Jon Snow to come down and bend the knee," Daenerys said. "We need his kingdom."

"You could always marry him," Tyrion suggested. "Then there would be no humiliation. You would co-rule."

" _I_ will rule Westros by myself," Daenerys said to him, turning her gaze towards the half-man. "I will not share that rule."

Tyrion did not seem happy, but it was the way of things. Yes, one day she would wed again. But _only_ when she sat the Iron Throne and people would understand that anyone who married her would also be subject to her. She would have a consort, and _not_ the other way around.


	12. Epi 2, Ch 5: Sam

***Sam***

"Now the legends of the Age of Heroes have been exaggerated and expanded with every retelling until they have become what they are today," Archmaester Lyla told the acolytes who sat in various tables surrounding him. Each table could accommodate five acolytes and they were filled to capacity in the room. Yet they all seemed bored. Yet Lyla would not allow himself to be dissuaded from this all important topic. "If we were to take those legends seriously, we'd never get to the heart of the matter, which is the whole point of maestery. Especially when it comes to the founders of realms. It is best to remember that when we speak of the legendary founders of the realms, generally centered on a high seat such as Casterly Rock or Winterfell, we aren't talking about realms the size of today.

"No, we are talking about small realms that grew overtime. If there ever was a Garth Greenhand and if he ever ruled his supposed Kingdom of the Reach, the likelihood was he ruled his castle at Highgarden and he only ruled probably up to a fortnight's from his halls. It is important to remember though that from there petty kingdoms arose the mighty realms that would become the Seven Kingdoms."

"Archmaester," Sam spoke raising his hand. Lyla was not accustomed to being interrupted in his lesson, or indeed really being asked questions. Sam saw the snow-haired man turn his gaze towards him. "Is it not true though that with legends there is always truth in them?"

"Well," the Archmaester said, shrugging. "There is always some truth. But the truth of them is never quite what we expect them to be. Some famous knight of the past may have been no more than a drunken hedgeknight who claimed he slew dragons when in truth, he'd have pissed himself at the sight of one and sent the fair maidens for them to eat! Now, as I was saying…."

"So if there is truth to be found, even if you can't say what exactly is the truth," Sam pressed, not letting up his inquiry, "Then would you say it's best to understand the whole legend to find the truths?"

Lyla reached up and into his robe behind his neck and started scratching. "Well, that is the point to be as well-studied as possible," he responded, his voice rather doubtful as to the relevance of this conversation.

"Then what about the Long Night," Sam asked, "What do the legends say about the White Walkers and how they were defeated? Do they ever mention how obsidian killed them? Or how they control the Army of the Dead and how the First Men combatted them?"

"Sam the Slayer," one of the acolytes scoffed and his companions snickered at the insult. Sam knew what people thought of his interest in the Long Night and his claims of the White Walkers. And frankly, he couldn't give two shits about what they thought.

"The Long Night was just a generational long winter," Lyla sniffed, "There were no White Walkers nor the Army of the Dead. There is no necromancy that could do so, no matter if the _Seven Pointed Star_ states that the Stranger would raise the most awkward person alive during a generations time to serve as a reminder of the power of the Gods."

"But would it not be prudent to learn as much about the Long Night as possible, just in case something like that were to happen again?" Sam pressed.

"It's not."

"Yes, but…."

" _It's not_ ," the Archmaester said firmly. "And I will hear no more about it in this class."

Sam took a deep breath. Fine, so he wouldn't get any information that way. He had a task to do, but he settled back into the seat as the Archmaester, seeming satisfied that he had thwarted foolish discussion, resumed his lesson on the legends of the Age of Heroes and why they were more farce then fact.

"Better luck next time," the small Dornish man, whom Sam still hadn't learned his name joked, giving Sam a nudge with his elbow into Sam's ribs as the Brother of the Night's Watch leaned forward with his arms crossed in front of him.

"Luck will be in rather short supply if I can't get the Gods damned answers I need!" Sam ground his teeth, "We'd all better pack-up and head to Essos! Because the Wall and the entire breadth of Westeros won't do a damned bit to save us!"

The smaller man chewed over that and finally said, "My name is Manual."

"What?" Sam asked, glancing sideways at him.

"If you want answers, you need to find other approaches to them," the Dornishman, whom now was named Manual. "You didn't ask my name so you couldn't find out about it. Ask something else related to your topic and he might just be more willing the answer them."

Manual returned to the lesson, and Sam was left to ponder the words that had been given. Every time he had ever asked about the Long Night or White Walkers, there was an obvious effort to block his inquiry. There was a saying that his father had said over and over again about the Order of Maesters. "If they could profit from keeping it to themselves, you best believe they'll do it, Sam."

The lesson ended perhaps forever away. Archmaester Lyla had a way of making every lesson draw out and seem far longer than just a simple two hours. The commotion of so many acolytes all rising as one to leave was deafening as chairs scrapped across the stone floor.

"Sam," Manual said, putting a hand on his shoulder, "Me and some of the other lads are going to take the noon-meal over at the _Frosty Wench._ Come join us! It'll be fun."

Sam had never been invited to do anything with the other acolytes. They had shunned him the way the Night's Watch had when he first arrived. However, it was cowardice and fatness that kept him at arm's length. No, everyone just didn't want to hear about White Walkers, which Sam made a point of most if not all his conversations.

"Thanks for the offer," Sam said, surprised at the offer. "I'd like to. I'll catch up though."

The Dornishman shrugged his shoulder. "Alright," he said, standing up and joining the rest of the young men pouring out of the room. Soon, Sam was all alone and he stood up and moved towards the Archmaester. He was placing the parchment sheets with the notes for his lesson on a pile as Sam approached him.

"You're still here, Tarly," the man sighed. "I honestly don't get your obsession with the Long Night. Has the cold of the True North shriveled your mind to a single point of focus? We should do a study on the deteriorating effect of the cold on a man's wits."

"I am a Brother of the Night's Watch," Sam said, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. He had never understood just how idiotic most people were in their attitudes to the Night's Watch until he had become one. Now, he realized just how foolish they all were and how much they belittled this group of men who kept them safe in denial. "It's my job."

"Well," Lyla said, turning to Sam. "I'll not give you the satisfaction of indulging in your fancies."

"I was wondering if you could answer a question though," Sam said. The shorter, snow-haired amn rolled his eyes and was about to start objecting. "What are the similarities between dragonglass and Valyrian steel?"

"There are no similarities between the two," the man said dismissively. "One is steel and the other is a natural stone. It is said dragonfire can make any stone into dragonglass, but I doubt that. Otherwise, Harrenhal would be a massive obsidian obelisk. There is some who state that Valyrian steel can actually be made by forging it with dragonfire. So, while I guess dragons would be the key to both, where would one get dragons now? From Daenerys Targaryen? We maesters killed off the old dragons because they were too terrible a weapon for the Targaryens to have all to themselves."

"Where can dragonglass be found?" Sam asked.

Lyla shrugged. "Dragonstone, I suppose," he shrugged, "But if you want a complete list of places, I assume that Archmaester Garib would know more. He is the head of our department of minerology."

Something awoke in Sam's memory. He was back in Maester Aemon's library in Castle Black. Stannis, all grim and stern was down talking to him. Stannis had just saved the entire Night's Watch from the army of Mance Rayder.

 _"I am told you killed a White Walker."_

 _"I did, Your Grace."_

 _"How?"_

 _"A dagger made of dragonglass."_

 _"Dragonglass?"_

 _"What the maesters call obsidian."_

 _"Yes, I know what it is. We have it in Dragonstone."_

Sam clapped himself on the head as he suddenly remembered. May all the Gods Old and New curse him for a fool! Lyla frowned as he turned and ran off.

"Thanks, Archmaester Lyla!" he called back.

Sam had to get a raven sent to Jon with the knowledge that he had just rediscovered. He didn't know how Valyrian steel was made, so he couldn't tell Jon how to make more. But he could tell him where there was obsidian!

* * *

Later that day, after the raven was safely off with the news of the rediscovery (although Sam made sure not to say that he had learned about it months past but had forgotten it) Sam was following another archmaester to the infected section of the Citadel. Sam really hated being down here. Even when he was delivering food, he generally hated it. At any given time, someone might touch him, he'd get infected and stuck in here, unable to get to Gilly and little Sam.

"This is a very important patient we are seeing today," Archmaester Ebrose told him. "Infact, I thought of you assisting as soon as I realized whom it was we were seeing today."

"Oh?" Sam asked. Ebrose was another Archmaester who had ignored his requests for more knowledge. Although his desires with Ebrose was to gain access to the restricted section. "Why?"

"He is Ser Jorah Mormont," Ebrose informed him. "The son of your Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, may the Mother have mercy on his soul."

"Really?" Sam's eyes widened. "He's here?"

"Of course, he is!" Ebrose said as they approached the door and looked at him. He gave Sam an admonishing look. "You were the one who met him the other night."

"The other night?" Sam asked, frowning. He thought back to a couple nights back. Whom had he met? Jorah Mormont. Jorah….."Ohhhhhh."

The door opened and Ser Jorah Mormont, disgraced knight and son of his father, Lord Commander Mormont of the Night's Watch, was sitting on the cot in the very back of the room. Ebrose handed a pair of gloves to Sam and Sam pulled them on, already having an apron on which would take the infection much easier than his own clothes.

"Good afternoon, Ser Jorah," Archmaester Ebrose said, stepping into the room. "How are you feeling today?"

"Not much better than the day before," the grizzled beard older man said, "But I assume better then I will tomorrow."

"That is a commendable way to look at life in general," Ebrose said, giving the other man a kindly nod. "Now, I must ask you to remove all your clothing, please. I need to get an idea of what we are dealing with and if it can be reversed."

Jorah sat there for a second, staring at first both Ebrose and then Sam. He seemed not to recognize Sam, which was okay. It had been late when he had shown up in the foyer of the Citadel. Jorah nodded and standing up, began to unlace the yellowish tunic he wore. His left hand was covered in greyscale, the patches of infection starting light grey at the edges and then growing darker as they delved inward.

The shirt was discarded onto the bed after he pulled it over his head, and there was a strong stench that suddenly was reinforced. Sam had tried not to notice it before, but now that there was no shirt to filter it, now he could smell the puss that leaked. There was also just a smell of rotten meat, even though his skin wasn't technically rotting. The greyscale started very hard near where his arm connected with his shoulder and shot both sideways and down, stretching to around his right nipple and stopping just short of his bellybutton.

Jorah then discarded his pants in similar fashion to his tunic and soon, he was completely naked. His legs and hips were unaffected, at least not from the front. Ser Jorah, uncomfortable in his nakedness, placed his noninfected hand over his manhood.

"Looks very nasty," Ebrose remarked, stepping closer to him until they were a mere two feet from each other. Jorah took a self-conscious step back. "Don't worry, Ser Jorah, I am a professional. You need not worry about infecting me. Now, would you please turn to your side and lift your infected arm up above your head straight up?"

Jorah did so, and Sam got a look at the Greyscale. Even his armpit was covered in it. He grimaced in sympathy at the older man. His entire side was covered in the greyscale, down to his last rib. Ebrose was touching it with a pointer he had, wooden and waxed so it could easily be soaked in boiling water and disinfected.

"Can you feel that at all?" he asked, prodding him several times along his side.

"A little," Jorah said.

"Good, good," the Archmaester nodded his head. "Would you turn with your back facing me?"

Jorah did, and this side wasn't nearly as bad as the front. It covered his shoulder blade and a little of his spine, but not too bad. Ebrose had him turn one last time to face his with his unaffected side. The whole inspection only took roughly ten minutes before Ebrose nodded.

"I have both good news and bad news for you," Ebrose said, stepping back. "Oh, you can get dressed while I inform you."

Jorah seemed grateful for the chance to hide his nakedness and he grabbed the britches and pulled them on.

"The good news is that you aren't so far gone that you are completely untreatable," Ebrose said. "We can give you something here in the Citadel to hold back the symptoms. People too far gone with greyscale always feel an immense amount of pain but can't feel pressure. You can feel pressure so that's good."

"You said there was bad news?" Jorah asked, cutting to the chase.

"The procedure that would fully cure you would kill you," Ebrose said. "You are an older man. You wouldn't survive the procedure. And while I said we could give you something to hold back the symptoms, it wouldn't stop it completely. It would continue to slowly grow. After four months, if you go a single day without the medication, you would die. It's one of those things that what is keeping it in check, could potential kill you if left unchecked."

Jorah sagged onto the bed. "What was the treatment?" he asked.

"You would have to be flayed all the greyscale off your chest," the Archmaester said, "A poultice would have to be immediately applied to the exposed muscle otherwise the dormant greyscale would come back. And then we'd have to sew shards of obsidian into your skin. At your age, the obsidian would poison you just as surely as the Greyscale would and you'd only be given another year before you would die. If you were even a decade younger, it would heal you, but obsidian has very strange effects on the body for older people."

"I thought that grinding dragonglass into a powder had marvelous healing property," Sam said.

"Not for a man his age," the Archmaester said. "If you weren't a knight we'd send you away immediately to the Doom, but you are a knight. We will give you the rest of this day to make what you will. Yet tomorrow morning, you will need to vacate this place."

Sam felt his heart drop. This was the son of the man whom had been his Lord Commander. He couldn't just give up on him! Sure, the flaying would be too much but surely it was better than living a life that could potentially alter him forever and make him a threat to everyone.

Jorah nodded his head. He had accepted the possibility long before.

"So I am destined to become one of those things either way," Jorah said, his voice a calm resignation.

"Not if you take the medicine," Archmaester Ebrose said, "I will make sure to fetch you a month's supply. All Maesters know how to make the medicine. _Time Giver_ it's called."

"But I would never be able to be healed or have human touch ever again," Jorah said, sighing as he leaned back. "What life if worth living like that?"

"It is still life," Ebrose assured him.

They stood around for a few seconds, a strained silence having fallen on the room. Ebrose bade Jorah farewell and assured him they would give him the medicine. With that, both Acolyte and Archmaester turned and left the room.

Sam and Ebrose walked down the hallway, Sam in misery. He had seen Greyscale get healed before! Surely there was a way to fix it. Shereen had been healed of it, and she still had the scales of it. Surely what was done for her as a child could also be done foe this man as well.

When he mentioned this to Archmaester Ebrose, the man shook his head. He wasn't having any discussion of it.

"I know of that case and you realize that it was within a month that it was healed?" Ebrose said. "Even the method used, if it were used on Ser Jorah, would do very little. He would still get the scales, they would still grow until they covered his entire body. Yes, even if he wasn't infectious, he would have no life. People would automatically assume he was infected and kill him. Trust me, the medicine, while it's not a perfect solution, is the only one he will ever get."

Sam didn't like that one bit. Yet he said nothing as they walked down the hallway. He would keep his opinions to himself. It was clear just how little people wanted to hear his opinion on such things. White Walkers and Greyscale. What next would come to bother him that he couldn't get fixed?


	13. Epi 2, Ch 6: Jorah Mormont

***Jorah Mormont***

A single candle burned in the cell he was in. For that's what this technically was, a cell. It wasn't meant for more than preventing the sick from living. Except that was what was going to happen.

Jorah had come here with high hopes. If anyone could fix him of this affliction, it was the maesters of the Citadel. He had been forced to completely cover up in order to get onboard the ship to cross Essos to get here. He had been unable to touch anybody for even a handshake except for wearing leather gloves that he had to wash in water before he made the effort.

Yet now to learn that he couldn't be healed? That his age of all things was what was going to prevent him from being healed? He knew the archmaester was well-intended, but he didn't want to waste his life using some medication on a daily basis to stay well. Especially if missing a single day was going to cost him everything. What was the point of extending a life that could never have human contact?

The archmaester had returned with a small box, and had shown him by opening it that there were small pills of powder wrapped in small paper of a type he did not know. There was about thirty pills there, enough for a single month. He had been instructed on how to take the medication if he so desired to and the box was by the candle.

He was laid on his back, hand behind his head and staring up at the ceiling above him. It was of stone, well-fitted. Whomever had built the citadel had done a good job with the stone-work. And he pondered. He tried his utmost to find a reason to look on this any other way than an ever-ending purgatory.

One thought that came to mind was that he was in Westeros at long last, back home. His pardon from Robert Baratheon was stuck in the small satchel he had carried into the Citadel. Yet he couldn't go back to Bear Island. Not even to his see his niece, little Lyanna. He had never met her, thanks to Ned Stark's banishment of him.

Forever would he roam the lands of Westeros. Never would he be able to interact or touch his surroundings. He would be a ghost of less malice but a deadlier nature. Sooner or later he would end up having to steal for his subsistence, and winter had come to Westeros. Depending on how bad it was, it was going to limit where he could roam and sooner or later, even though he would have the medication, someone would kill him upon seeing his greyscale.

They would call him 'Jorah the Explorer' and his nice satchel and map that he would start talking to. Perhaps he would even get a monkey that he would call Boots. His understanding was that greyscale didn't seem to pass between man and beast. Forever would he roam with his Map, Satchel and Monkey called Boots and explore every part of Westeros and one day become a legend for children.

"Seven Hells," Jorah grunted, pushing himself up. "I'm not going to live like this!"

He rose to his feet and stepped over to the small table where the candle was burning. A maester had left an inkwell bottle and a quill there for his use. And a piece of parchment he could use when he was here. Jorah pulled back the small chair and sat, and stared at the paper for a few seconds.

How would he word his failure? How could he make clear to Daenerys just how much he loved her? How she had given him new life and meaning during a time when he was so depressed that he was willing to do anything to get home? Including selling out her and her brother? Sure, Varys was a cunt who deserved it. But Daenerys? No, not at all.

He though long on hard, trying to find words that would fit the moment. Yet he was no poet, and all attempts would be for naught. Nothing came to his mind, except his most basic emotions. Setting his jaw firmly and rounding his shoulders, he reached out and grabbing the quill set the quill to the parchment and began to write.

 _Dear Khaleesi_ , he wrote, never having had the skill and strength to keep his words nice. His writing always seemed a tad sloppy. _I came here to the Citadel of Oldtown. I had hoped to find a cure here, but as you can see by this epistle, I have failed. Do not hate these people in their failure, they are well-intended and good and there is only so much they can do against nature._

 _They did make a suggestion that would prolong how long I would have before going completely mad as the Stone Men, but I would live forever in agony. Unable to touch or feel anything. I could never return to your service in good faith and confidence that I would never make anyone sick with my disease. Especially you, and I cannot risk you becoming sick._

 _You are young and strong, and my love for you is eternal. I had hoped to see you rise to throne and break the wheel. How you intend to do it the Gods only know, but everything you touch is changed for the better. I know you could never love me as I have loved you, but know that I would have moved the stars to make your kingdom happen and the ending you want to become a reality._

 _Do not weep for my end, but rejoice in the release of my pain. If I had one wish, it would have been to have one more day with you._

 _Yours Forever,_

 _Ser Jorah Mormont_

He felt an odd sense of calm when he put down the quill and looked at the letter he had written. He was surprised with the amount of depth he had been able to put on the page and in the words he had written. Perhaps he _should_ have become a poet. He certainly seemed to have a better knack for it then he gave himself credit.

"Well then," he said, pushing himself out of the chair and kneeling on the ground. "Let's not dawdle with this."

He reached out his hand and grabbed the scabbard of his sword. Picking it up from the ground he brought it to him. At the last minutes he suddenly saw anew all the scratches on his scabbard with renewed detail and for a second he was lost as his memories came crashing over him with where and how he got each cut and slash on the scabbard.

There was one from Yunkai. Another from Asatpor. One was from a Dothraki that had tried to take his leg off but instead connected with his scabbard.

No, he shook himself as he gripped the handle. He would not prolong the inevitable. He could feel the wood of the handle with far greater intensity. He used his unaffected right hand to grab the hilt and pull it from the sheath. The sound of leather on steel seemed oddly loud in the chamber and while the sword seemed a little large for the small area he was working with, he didn't want it to miss.

Turning the blade around so the tip was directed to his navel, he reached out with both hands and wrapped it around the hilt. He did not close his eyes, but he knew he was going to have to make a concerted effort not to allow his natural instinct for self-perseveration to stay his hand. Taking a deep, breath, he moved the blade just a little farther back…..

And the door opened. The noise startled him and Jorah dropped the sword with a loud clatter on the floor. Gods damn it! Now he was going to have to try doing it all over again. He turned his glare towards the door, and it was the fat acolyte that had come in earlier with the archmaester.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting anything," the lad said, pointedly looking at the sword on the ground. "I do hope I could talk to you."

Jorah really wasn't in the mood for talk. No, he was in a murderous mood now that he had been interrupted murdering himself! Closing his eyes, he tried to keep any biting remarks to himself, he nodded.

Jorah wasn't a man great at initiating conversations with people he wasn't on a name-to-name basis with, so he just stayed kneeled as the acolyte closed the door behind him. He watched the large man step across the room and sit on the chair, making sure not to lean back even though he was wearing an apron for his back as well as his front.

This lad wasn't a hard-looking lad. No, his face spoke of kindness and a rather good disposition. Someone who was much more at home picking roses and daisies for the ladies of a village and giving them out then starting fights.

"My name is Samwell Tarly," the acolyte said. "Your name is Jorah Mormont."

Jorah frowned. Yes, his name was Jorah Mormont. Jorah very well knew his own name.

"Your father was Jeor Mormont and he was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Samwell continued. "I knew your father. I served under his as a Sword Brother who was a Steward for the Night's Watch. You are not dying today, Ser Jorah."

Jorah said nothing, but looked down upon the sword on the ground. He was as good as dead, no matter what happened. Why shouldn't he put an end to it now? Before the loneliness drove him to despair? He was still in charge of all his wits and facilities, so why shouldn't he go out now, still as a man and not as a mindless beast?

"I cannot heal you I am afraid," Samwell told him, "I have tried to find a way that I could heal you and be able to give you back your old life whatever it was, but I can't find anything. But I learned one thing from your father. Okay, not _one_ , I learned a lot. I learned strength that I did not have, he showed me how to be courageous when I couldn't be myself. Would you like to know though what he taught me most of all?"

Jorah did not reply. He was pretty sure that Samwell Tarly of the Night's Watch and maester acolyte would be more than willing to tell him.

"He taught me that as long as we have breath in our lungs and strength in our legs that we don't give up," he said. "We went ranging in the North to find where all our Rangers were disappearing. We were attacked by White Walkers, and two hundred of us were killed. I was scared all the time, and I wanted to give up, but he gave me a command, 'You will not die'. He knew what we were facing, for he had fought them, but he refused to give up. Even as I saw the traitors dagger plunged into his back, Jeor still fought."

"White Walkers?" Jorah asked, not sure he heard correctly. "They're real? I know my father believed they were and that's a reason he took the Black but I never believed they were anything but tales. Tell me truly, are they real? Really real?"

Sam's face grew ashen as memories most dark and unpleasant raced through his mind. His breathing became ragged as whatever had happened North of the Wall raced through his mind. This man didn't say anything. His face spoke volumes and the truth was in his face. Had Samwell spoken most eloquently, using the wisdom of the entire world, Jorah would have probably laughed in his face as a sun-baked fool. But the look on his face, the terror that was there, was proof beyond a shadow of a doubt his proof.

"I have fought them," Samwell said, his voice taking on fire. "I have killed one. The woman you saw me with when you showed up, it was coming for her baby. I killed it with a dagger made of dragonglass, also called obsidian."

Jorah put his hands on his knees and looked at the floor. So….they _were_ real. Jeor had told his son perhaps a thousand times about them and how they needed to be prepared for their coming. Jorah had never understood what had made him so obsessed with them. The day he took the black, Jeor had announced it without warning at the supper table. He had not once mentioned a desire to join the Night's Watch, but suddenly he was.

"Tell me of this woman you called 'my love'," Samwell suddenly said.

Jorah was taken aback by the question. He looked at Samwell and saw that the other man was being serious. So, Jorah nodded.

"She is meant to rule the world," Jorah said, a smile growing on his face. "I never thought anyone could have such a sense of destiny to them, and I have know many, many peoples. Lords, nobles, warriors, septons. But the world she builds is a great and bold new one.

"But she…..you have no idea of how a single person can give you such a drive in life, Samwell Tarly. I look at her, and suddenly my path is clear. She gives me a purpose far beyond my own means."

Samwell was also smiling as well. "Sounds like a remarkable person," he commented.

"Oh, how you do not realize the truth of those words," Jorah sighed, putting a hand on his heart. "Kingdoms tremble at her very name, Tarly! She is the moon of my life. My dreams are aflame in her presence. I dreamed of home for so long, to return from exile to be able to sit upon my father's seat in Bear Island. I hated Eddard Stark beyond all men, but she took away that hate. The longer I knew her, the more I stopped seeing Bear Island as home. I saw her as my home. Wherever she was, I had a sense of belonging."

"Whom is worthy woman you speak of?" Samwell Tarly asked.

"Daenerys Targaryen," Jorah said.

Samwell stared in stunned silence at him. He started to laugh but seeing the seriousness on Jorah's face, the laughter died. Samwell leaned in a bit closer, wonder in his eyes.

"Does she really have dragons?" Samwell asked.

Jorah gave a small nod. Samwell sighed and leaned back in his chair. Jorah could not express any more his love for that young woman. She was meant to conquer the world and give justice and mercy in equal measures. The world would speak her name, while everyone living now would be turned to ash no no more than a pleasant memory that had no weight.

"I cannot heal you," Samwell said again, "But I tell you, you cannot die. The White Walkers are coming. Winter is upon us and the Army of the Dead is marching on the Wall. If you love her as much as you say you do, go north! Join the fight! If the White Walkers breach the Wall, there will be no world left for her!"

"But….."

"There is no buts nor asses," Samwell cut him off. "We fight not for ourselves Jorah Mormont, but for those we love. I fight for Gilly, a woman I love whom I am not supposed to by oath. I love her just as fiercely as you love the Mother of Dragons. We are the Watcher on the Wall and we stand against the night. We guard the realms of men, from this day, to our last day. And you cannot give up your life when you can fight for as long as possible to give the woman you love the chance for her new world."

Jorah sat there, taking everything Samwell had said in. He didn't want to live forever, day to day taking _Time Giver_ to prolong his own suffering. Yet, Samwell had said many good things. Yet what good could he do against the Dead? He was a single man.

"Why would you break your vows for a woman?" Jorah asked, looking at him. "I know the Night's Watch oaths and you are not to take a wife and father any children."

"That's why we aren't married," Samwell cheekily replied. "But for her, I'd break a thousand oaths. She gives my oaths far more meaning then they ever did before and she ended the fear that held me captive."

"The women in our lives," Jorah sighed as he looked away.

He could never have the relationship that Samwell and Gilly had. Even beforehand, Daenerys had not exactly been the most appreciative of him or his efforts. Seven Hells, the woman had exiled him without taking into account all he had done in her service! Yet at the end….he had seen the look in her eyes. In her own way, she loved him just as much as he did. Perhaps not a romantic love, but it had been just as strong a love.

"Just think about it," Samwell said, standing to his feet. "The world still has need of Ser Jorah Mormont. Daenerys Targaryen still has need of Jorah."

Samwell left the room and closed the door behind him, leaving Jorah by himself. Jorah still was kneeling on the floor, thinking of all he said and had heard. Yet…..there was only so much he could do. Slowly his hand moved over and grabbed the hilt of the sword and lifted it, moved the tip to point at his lower abdomen. This would be the easiest thing to do, and spare the world of a sickness he carried as deadly as any White Walkers.

* * *

"Hurry up!" the Captain shouted as his men were moving boxes onto the deck of the ship. "You sons of whores all of you! Why the Gods I put up with the lot of you is beyond my poor understanding!"

"It's because you love us, Captain!" one of the crew shouted back to him, to the groans of most of the men. The Captain was not a very nice man. He was a task master and a slave-driver if any man ever had been. He demanded nothing less than perfection.

"I'd actually love you all if your filthy bastard fathers had squirted their seeds in a goats arse than in your whore mother's belly!" he snapped back.

Through the hard-working crew moved a man in a heavy robe. He inclined his head to each man that spotted him as he passed, and he walked up the gangplank to the Captain. He was a short fellow, and the other man had him by a full-head. The Captain glared up at the fellow.

"What the fook do you want?" he snarled. "Are you blind and can't see we're a little busy here?"

"Are you the Captain?" the man asked.

"Aye," the Captain replied, "Why?"

"I'd like to buy passage," the man said, "I heard you are headed to White Harbor in the north. I'd like to go there."

"I may be willing to let you buy passage," the Captain said, "But why would you want to go there? Winter has at last fooking come, just as the Stark are always going on about. Say what you will about those wolves, they are always Gods damned right in the end. Unlike many of the other houses. So again, why would you want to go where there will be Seven Hells amount of snow up there and difficult to get around."

"I wish to go to the Wall," the man said, "And while I realize Eastwatch-By-The-Sea is closer…."

"Or course it bloody well is!" the Captain snorted, "It's _on_ the Wall."

"I need to stop by Winterfell first," the man said.

The Captain looked the man over and seemed to be taking his measure. He had a face that always seemed to be sour about everything. The man moved aside as a crew-man walked up the gangplank with a barrel over his shoulders as the Captain considered him.

"I'm an ornery son of a bitch that will be followed if I give you instructions," the Captain finally said. "You will sleep down with the crew and eat when the crew does."

"I'm fine with the first," the man said, "But the last not so much. I need to be apart most of the trip from the others."

"Why?" the Captain asked, giving him a hard look. "Why is so special about you?"

"I'm not special," the man shook his head, "It's just that….look, for the health of your crew, I can't be near them."

"No," the Captain shook his head, curled his fists and placed them firmly on his hips. "You sleep where I fooking say, or I will fooking leave you right here. Your choice."

Jorah nodded his head, giving into the demands. If there was any man he'd give grey scale to…..it'd probably be this small man. But, he needed to get north to do what he could for Khaleesi. Ironically, he was doing for Daenerys something that his father had wanted him to do.

To go to the Wall.


	14. Epi 2, Ch 7: Sansa

***Sansa***

The light of morning awoke her. Although it was getting harder to distinguish night from day now in Winterfell. Ever since winter had come, there was two states of existence. It was either a black-dark with the night or a greyish-dark with the day. You could really only tell by the shades of difference of the ambient lighting what was day and what was night.

She had been having a good dream. As her handmaidens dressed her for the day with a very fetching dark blue dress, hugging her form and accentuating her curves, she thought about the dream. Everyone was together in Winterfell. Robb, Jon and Theon were running around, pretending they were various different knights. Bran was climbing the walls of Winterfell, as Rickon ran, screaming he was going to tell mother. Arya was wearing a helmet on her head and banging pots and pans while Catelyn was telling her daughter to be quiet. Her father was staring into the fire in the main hall, wiping down _Ice_ with a cloth. And Sansa had been performing the most exquisite needlework, with Septa Mordane praising her. All the while the direwolves howled in the background, making a very interesting music that comforted her.

A sound arose from the courtyard, entering her chambers, which had been Catelyn and Neds. She had finally accepted the offer by Jon to have them. She had always liked pretty things, and all the abuse she had endured had only made her appreciate them more, for they weren't the world. The world was harsh and cruel, and that thought led to Joffrey and Ramsey, as just two faces in a parade of cruel men and spiteful women. She had heard how Shaye had betrayed Tyrion during his trial, bearing false witness against him. Actually both of them, telling the gathered lords and ladies that both Tyrion and Sansa had plotted to kill Joffrey. There were few things in life that she knew for certain, yet the fact that Tyrion had loved his nephews and niece far more than he had hated that beast was among them.

"What is going on down there?" she asked, opening the shutter to the window. She had a view of the courtyard from her window and she could see many men gathering.

"I am not sure, my lady," one of the handmaidens replied. "Would you like me to go ask why?"

"No," Sansa replied. She was not one anymore to just sit around if she could go do it herself. That Sansa had died a long time ago. "I'll go see for myself."

Handed her cloak, she put it on and left the room, her shoes softly padding down the stone hallways. Brienne was waiting outside when Sansa emerged and she fell into step beside her. Sansa was reassured by her presence. Not that she had to fear anyone in Winterfell, but it was nice to know that the towering Brienne of Tarth was there, ready to flatten any man who dare think to get a little too uppity.

They walked in silence to the courtyard where they found Jon standing next to Tormund. They were talking but when Tormund saw the 'Big Woman' as he liked to call her, he turned his intense passionate gaze to her and gave a toothy-lopsided smile. Sansa glanced to the side and saw Brienne shudder at that. Sansa couldn't stop herself from smiling in amusement.

Brienne might be capable in many things. Yet she was not equipped to handle being the object of a man's affections.

"What is going on?" Sansa asked, stepping up close to Jon.

Jon waved his hand back to the gathered men. "The Bolton men that were prisoners are being marched to Sentinel Stand and Tormund is leaving for Eastwatch-By-The-Sea. We figured we'd all leave at the same time."

"What is this _'we'_?" Sansa asked. She noted that Jon looked geared up for a ride as well. He was wearing heavy-leather riding boots.

"I'm going to fetch Bran," Jon said, sounding if that should have been plain. "Would you like to come along? We can have your horse prepared. It'll only take us a week to ride to the Wall in these conditions, so two weeks and we'll be back here in Winterfell."

"I wish you had asked me this question before you decided to go galloping after Bran," Sansa said, pursing her lips.

How Sansa wanted to see Bran! Bran had been a little trouble-maker, always causing their mother to worry. Sansa was certain that he had aged Lady Catelyn by several years with his affinity with climbing. Yet his big sister had always loved Bran, for he had been a kind boy that never spoke an ill-word about anyone. To see one of her full-brothers would give her great joy. Jon was many things to her, but he was only a half-brother and no matter how they were as children or even now, that fact had always been a divider between them.

"I'm asking now," Jon pointed out.

Sansa made a decision that while she didn't like it, was the one that was most responsible. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," she decided. "Go get our brother and bring him home."

Jon nodded and they stared at each other a few seconds. So, they were going to say goodbye, for the first time in years. You would think saying goodbye would get easier with the passage of time, but it didn't. There was always a bit of awkwardness to it.

"Your Grace!" Ser Davos called out across the courtyard, interrupting any potential farewells. "You have a raven!"

Sansa turned to the older man. Even as she did, Tormund said to Brienne, "Let us let the big folk talk, yes? Let me tell you about Sheila the Bear." Brienne's voice made a terse reply but in the end, Brienne followed him. Sansa could only imagine what type of story that would be.

Davos came to a stop about two feet from them, taking deep breaths. He had run across the courtyard, not a small feat for a man his age. He held out the scroll to Jon who took it and read it. Sansa watched his facial features. The grimness that set in there.

"Daenerys Targaryen has landed in Dragonstone," Jon finally said after reading the scroll and handing it to Sansa so she could read it. "I've been asked to go south to talk with her about an alliance between us. Your former husband says that safe passage is guaranteed."

Yes, that was what it said, although she didn't quite understand the last part of the it. "Why would he say 'All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes'?" she asked.

"Because he told me that the night of the feast with King Robert," Jon explained. "It's a way to ensure that I know it actually was him that was writing."

That made sense. Tyrion was a very clever man. He would ensure people knew what he said actually came from him. He was among the most book-learned people she had ever met.

"You know him better than I," Jon said, "Do you believe him?"

"Me?" Sansa asked.

"You were married to him after-all."

Sansa looked back at the scroll. "He wouldn't say it if he wasn't certain of it," she finally said. "He isn't like the rest of his family. He is a decent man."

"I think we need to get this alliance," Davos said. "You say the dead can only be stopped by fire. Well, dragons are regular fire producers and breath lots of fire. We need her, or more specifically, we need her dragons if we are to fight the Dead."

Jon crossed his arms. He seemed to be actually considering it! Sansa might believe Tyrion, but there was no way that you could really trust any of the Targaryens. It was unwise, to say the least.

"You can't trust a Targaryen," Sansa reminded him. "Don't forget what they did to our family."

"That's never far from my mind when considering them," Jon said, looking down to the ground. "Last time I did something like this, go make an alliance, almost a hundred thousand wildlings became wights and I received a knife to the heart."

"But, Your Grace….." Davos said but Jon held up a hand.

"No," Jon said firmly. "If she comes north and asks, then I'll consider it. But Stark men do not fare well in the South."

"Forgive me, Your Grace," a new voice said, and Sansa turned to see Littlefinger stepping up to them. "I could not help but overhear this conversation."

"I bet," Davos snorted but Lord Baelish ignored the remark.

"If I may give council towards this decision," he said, "If indeed this threat cannot be defeated by normal means, then unnormal means are required. She does have three-full grown dragons, and being dismissive of that potential is irresponsible to say the least."

"What would you have me do, Lord Baelish?" Jon turned to him. "Surrender the north to her? Bend the knee? Send Ser Davos down there?"

"Daenerys Targaryen is her father's daughter and she would never listen to Ser Davos…"

Sansa could see the heat rising in the old man's face. "I will have you know I am more than capable of handling negotiations with anyone or anything!" he retorted.

Littlefinger held up his hands defensively. "I am not casting aspersions on your negating skills, my good Hand," he said soothingly, "But the Targaryens only respect strength, Your Grace. You must go yourself because only a King can treat with a Queen. Royalty speaks the words of royalty by virtue of being royalty and she will take anything you say far more serious than simply a servant. No matter how high the trust placed in that man."

Sansa noted how he had added in that last part while taking a quick look at Davos. He had always been such a good speaker, and Sansa had always found it very intriguing to watch him work. Did she hate him for Ramsey? Yes, she could never quiet forgive him for that. Yet everything else he had done….

"Why should I trust her, Lord Baelish?" Jon asked.

"Because she has grown in Essos and has been removed from the heritage of cruelty that the Targaryens learned while here," he pointed out. "She has had such people as Ser Barristan Selmy advising her and giving her council. She also is known as a liberator in Essos, 'Breaker of Chains' they call her for she has freed tens of thousands of slaves from their bondage. You both would understand each other because you are much the same, defenders of the weak and champions for good. That makes you far more likely to be successful than even our good Ser Davos."

The more Littlefinger talked, the more Sansa was suddenly unsure of the wisdom of Jon's stubbornness. Yes, Sansa knew the perils that Jon spoke of, and he firm belief in them. She also firmly believed that the Targaryens were not to be trusted. Yet she had known Ser Barristan Selmy. He had been everything the old stories said of knights, courteous and kind. And she _had_ grown up away from Westeros and had freed slaves.

Could she really be that bad, now that she thought about it?

"No," Jon shook his head. "I am going to the Wall to retrieve my brother and to get these men there as well. Winter is upon us and we don't have the time to make such wild adventures."

"Perhaps Littlefinger is right. I could go…." Sansa ventured. She had little experience in diplomacy, but if Daenerys was even half the woman that Littlefinger said, then perhaps there wasn't a reason for alarm.

Jon turned to her with unbelieving eyes and his temper was up. "No!" he snapped, "Who commands here in the north, Sansa? Me or Lord Baelish?"

"You do," Sansa replied, "Why are you getting ang-"

"I am King and I say we shall not go South to treat with her!" Jon clenched his fist, "And that is final, Sansa!"

Sansa's jaw clenched and a scowl appeared on her face. Jon's face suddenly showed remorse at his comments and he pulled her in close to a hug. Sansa tried to resist returning his embrace, but she had always been one who loved hugs and as she was pressed against his strong chest, she wrapped her arms slowly around him. She felt Lord Baelish and Davos suddenly uncomfortable at this but she didn't give a fuck what they found comfortable or not.

"I am sorry," he said, "We can't part on bad words and hurt feelings."

 _"Harsh words_ ," Davos corrected and both Sansa and Jon laughed as they heard the words. It might be annoying that he liked to correct grammar, but Gods, if his timing wasn't impeccable.

"You could never do anything that I couldn't forgive," Sansa told him and they pulled apart. "Go get Bran and bring him home."

Jon nodded and turning around, called to Tormund. They mounted the horses that had been being held this entirely long time by a stable-boy. Brienne walked up to Sansa and she had a face flushed with both embarrassment. Sansa frowned and looked over at Tormund, who winked at the big woman.

"You have Winterfell, Lady Stark!" Jon turned to Sansa and held up his hand in farewell.

"Safe journeys, King Snow!" Sansa replied and with that, the convoy of men began to move forward, Jon and Tormund riding along the side of the column of men, out the gates towards the King's Road.

As Sansa watched him ride off, she suddenly felt even more certain that Jon may have made a dreadful mistake in not following Littlefingers' advice. She had found that was usually a pretty bad decision, minus the Ramsey affair.

* * *

They were sitting to the noon meal and Sansa was cutting the piece of meat with her fork. They kept their meals simple, they needed to preserve food for the long winter ahead of them. Maester Walkan hadn't had an idea how long the last one had been, so he was currently investigating it. Yet at last count, she wanted to say she had heard something about only a years' worth of food was stored. They were going to need more.

A few others were also eating in the hall, sitting at other tables. One noticeable absence was little Lyanna Mormont. Lyanna had been sorrowful when she had learned that Jon had left Winterfell but had announced to Sansa that she was returning to Bear Island. She had been most insistent that Lady Sansa tell her brother that she was going to do what she needed and he could come visit Bear Island at any time.

Davos and Sansa had shared a knowing smile between the two of them. Jon had certainly found an admiring woman, even if she was only a ten-year-old girl. Davos and Baelish were also sitting at the table with Sansa, sharing the noonday meal with her.

"Lady Sansa," Davos said, setting down the cup of wine that he had been drinking. "May I inquire about something?"

"Of course," she nodded to him. "What is it?"

Davos placed his two-pronged fork on the table and leaned forward, taking a deep breath as if trying to collect his thoughts and organize them. Lord Baelish was also watching, very curious to what this inquiry was all about. If anything was of interest to Littlefinger, then Sansa should pay extra attention.

"When I met Jon when I was under Stannis," he said, "There was a few times I was able to talk with him about our families. My family and his. He talked a lot about his family, and I got a sense of how he was treated before joining the Wall. I learned about your brother Bran and how he left before Bran had come out of his coma. He talked about his brothers and sister in equal detail, his step-mother and father. I got a sense of why he joined the Night's Watch."

Sansa suddenly looked down at her plate, stabbing a fork into the cut piece of venison. She knew where this was going. It was something that she even today still couldn't quiet come to terms with. Yes, she understood the actual reasons, but it made it no less harder on her, even now when she was older.

"Let me guess where you are going with this," Sansa looked up at him. "He told you we were all rotten and wicked to him. Except for Robb and Bran and Arya. Arya most of all, whom he loved he far better than any of us. He told you his wicked step-mother had treated him like rubbish, which she absolutely did. I loved my mother but I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but she cared nothing for Jon and tried turning us all against him if she could."

"Well," Davos said, taken aback by the fury she was unleashing now.

"And he also told you his evil little sister Sansa who was so mean and teased him so horribly and treated him like a monster!" Sansa continued, her voice rising with every passing moment despite herself. "The girl who refused to tell him when supper was ready because it was fun to watch his face fall when he realized he had missed supper! That she stole his things to watch him trying to find them! How she spat in his food on several occasions! Or the time she sewed his britches shut so he couldn't wear them unless he took a knife to them. That Sansa, the vicious little redheaded brat, drove him to the Wall!"

The whole room had grown quiet as she came to the end of her rant. She sat there, taking deep breaths trying to calm herself. Her grip was tight on her fork and Baelish's eyes were fixed on the fork as if it were a weapon. Slowly the hall returned to their regular chatter as they tried to get past the really tense and awkward situation.

"Not at all," Davos said, "Infact, he told me quite the opposite of you."

Sansa blinked as she heard the words but wasn't sure he had said what she thought he had said. Surely, he had not said what she thought he had said. Because that just couldn't be true.

Davos continued. "Jon told me that you two were the best of friends growing up, and while it had gotten less so the closer he had gotten to joining the Night's Watch, and he felt sorry that his decision to join had caused your falling out, but everything he told me was that you and he were as thick as thieves."

Sansa felt embarrassed and she put her face in her hands. "I thought it was me that drove him to the Wall," she admitted. "Yes, we were very close when we were really young. We did everything together. We were going to conquer the world, he the brave knight and I with my supreme lady skills. Our favorite spot to talk was in the Broken Tower."

"If I may ask, what changed?" Davos asked, "That's what I wanted to inquire about. I know you are both siblings and siblings like to bicker, Gods know I did with my brother. But you both don't seem nearly as close as he made it out to be."

"Septa Mordane and my mother changed that," Sansa explained, shuddering at the memory. "On my tenth name-day, Septa Mordane told me that if I ever wanted to be a true lady, I needed to really look at how my mother did things. Lady Catelyn Stark was a great lady and how she did things was the prime example of how to be a lady. So, I watched my mother, how she interacted with people."

"Then you saw how she treated your bastard brother," Baelish said, seeming enthralled in the tale. "At first it was hard for you to treat your brother like that. It didn't feel good, you knew it was wrong. Yet you had to be like your mother to fulfill your dreams. And as time went by and you gained more practice at being mean to him, the easier it became to look on him not as a brother, but as a bastard who had done your mother, and by extension you wrong."

Sansa nodded her head. She was ashamed of how on the nose Littlefinger was. It had just become so easy for her to be mean to Jon. She was sure now that Septa Mordane had not actually meant that part of Lady Catelyn's personality was meant to be used. But it had been.

"Jon shortly after I started treating him that way told us at supper that he was joining the Night's Watch," Sansa said, the memory a bitter one in her mouth. "I really hated him after that, abandoning us. Abandoning me. I always assumed that my starting doing that hateful treatment was what drove him away. Yet…..if he didn't but told you only of the good things, then I do feel a little better."

"Two people in the same situation remember things differently," Davos remarked.

Sansa had always wondered why he had said "There is nothing to forgive" when she asked for his forgiveness in Castle Black. She had always partly hated herself for driving him to the Wall, as she assumed had been the reason behind his choice to leave. However, if that hadn't been the case at all, she now wondered just how bad Catelyn Stark had _really_ treated him.

But if he didn't remember the bad, nearly as much as the good of their relationship, then she really felt like a silly sod.

There was a loud commotion in the hallway and Sansa looked up to see what it was. Shortly, a guard entered, a concerned look on his face. The man was a fat man, better suited to the dinner table then soldiery.

"Mi'lady," the guard said, "There is a man who claims to be your friend here."

"Of course I am her friend, you cunt!" another voice snarled and pushed his way through. He strode hard and fast up to her, purpose in every footstep.

Sansa stood up to her feet, surprisingly extremely happy to see the man who stood before her. One of the few men who had shown her kindness in King's Landing. She stepped around the table and stepped up before the man, who had offered her a chance to leave King's Landing, but she had refused, much to her later regret.

"Hello, little bird," Sandor Clegane, the Hound said.


	15. Epi 2, Ch 8: Cersei

***Cersei***

Cersei walked down the corridor of the Red Keep, a member of the Queen's Guard following behind her. It wasn't Ser Gregor Clegane, no, Qyburn had need of him at the moment. Cersei wasn't quite sure as to why, but he was among the most cleverest of men she had ever known. So she was more than willing to allow him to do whatever he wanted, since it benefited her version of the Realm.

No, the man following her was a different sort altogether. Ser Arys Oakheart, the youngest son of Lady Oakheart of Old Oak, along the Ocean Road. It was one of two roads that intersected at Highgarden. He was not unattractive, he was built like a one man battering ram but had light brown hair and a very comely face.

"Tell me, Ser Arys," Cersei said, as they entered a chamber that led to an office she had chosen to be her personal office. "How did you like Dornish?"

"Your Grace?" Ser Arys asked.

"It's a simple enough question, good knight," she said. She stopped by a pillar and looked down at the floor. It had a rather new addition to the Red Keep. The entire floor was painted in a map of Westeros, clear up to the Land of Always Winter, where it ended not much further above the wall. She had heard all about the map table in Dragonstone, even though she had never seen it. "This map I had commissioned shows me everything that is supposed to be in the Seven Kingdoms. My brother could tell you where every city and town in the Realm is without the need of a map, yet I am not born with that particular gift. You went to Dorne with Myrcella. Tell me, how did you like it down there?"

Ser Arys shrugged. "I found the land excessively hot, Your Grace," he replied. "There was enough water to be sure, but it is no wonder the Dornish are of a shade darker than us. They were baked into that color by the sun."

"What do you think of the people?" Cersei asked him. "Do they willingly follow Ellaria and her brood of bitches? Or would they have rather had a different leader?"

"I found them not nearly to be driven by revenge as the Sand Snakes were, Your Grace," he agreed. "If the daughter of Prince Doran hadn't been locked up by them, they wouldn't follow Ellaria but her."

"Her name is Arianna, isn't she?" Cersei said, looking at the Knight.

"Yes, Your Grace," Arys nodded. "Although she never wanted to be the leader of Dorne. No, she was perfectly willing to allow Trystane to be the next leader of Dorne even though it was hers by Dornish customs, as she was the oldest child of Doran."

"I heard you two were quite close," Cersei commented to which Arys seemed to be ready to deny it with vehemence. "I do not judge you for where you stuck your cock, Ser Arys. We as people rarely choose the people that we love. It's both a blessing and a curse. Jaime told me he told Myrcella that before she died of her poisoning."

"Indeed, Your Grace," Ser Arys said, although he seemed far less comfortable with the topic than reassuring words should have had effect on him.

Cersei shrugged and with a lift of her hand motioned him to follow as she walked over to the room that had door closed. With a nod, Arys stepped forward and opened the door for her, it swung inwards. Inside, waiting on a chair with a face claen shaven and short hair sat a member of the Iron Bank of Braavos.

"Forgive me, my lord Tycho Nestoris," Cersei said, sweeping into the room and sitting on the chair on the opposite side of the heavy table. Ser Ser Arys took up a place next to the door. "Ruling takes up much of my time."

"Of course," the Iron Banker said with a smile that had an effect of looking both polite and condescending at the same time. "Although I am not a lord. No, I see how expensive debts become when you are a lord, and I would not have that myself. Simply Tycho will do."

Cersei had never actually dealt with anyone from the Iron Bank previously. Yet she had heard of the smug superiority of the sons of bitches. And there it was. His entire demeanor was of a cool ease born by the fact he believed he was untouchable. All men were touchable, but she would not be baited into rashness by this little man. He was far less than he could ever know.

"Tycho then," she agreed. "So what brings you here to King's Landing?"

"Well, my dear Cersei," he began.

" _Your Grace_ ," Cersei cut him off.

Tycho blinked once. "Pardon?" he asked.

"I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Cersei reminded him. "You may not be a lord and a banker, but I am the rightful ruler of an entire continent. _You_ may want to be on a first name basis, but I _will_ not."

Tycho stared at her for a few seconds, and she could see the little wheels of his mind creaking. He glanced sideways and saw quiet fully Ser Arys, who with his new helmet of looping face plates that made it look like owl's eyes looked very intimidating indeed. The Iron Banker returned his gaze to Cersei and inclined his head.

"Of course, you are right, Your Grace," he said apologetically, although he somehow managed to not sound apologetic at all. "Forgive my lack of manners."

"So what brings you here to King's Landing?" Cersei repeated the earlier question.

"The Crown is in considerable debt," Tycho said, holding up the ledger that he had stuffed by his side. "And time has come to collect. You owe ten million gold dragons to the Iron Bank."

"Much of the debt is owed to House Lannister and not the Iron Bank," she reminded him. "My brother when he was Master of Coin made sure to inform us of that fact."

"That was months ago, Your Grace," the banker pointed out to her. "The debt has gotten much bigger since then."

"How?" Cersei asked, "We haven't borrowed a single copper penny from the bank since Robert's time. After my husband's death, we stopped borrowing from you."

"Yes, but the Crown has not made a single payment since your husband's death," Tycho explained, setting his ledger down on the table with a hearty thump. "The interest went from six millions to ten million by the incurred interest and nonpayment fees. We assumed when Lord Mace Tyrell arrived and we worked out a seven percent agreement with the Realm that it would be paid. Yet we never saw anything."

"We can completely pay it off," Cersei said. "I have worked a strategy out with my Master of War to be able to pay back in full the debt."

"That would be most fortunate for you," Tycho replied, although he seemed utterly unconvinced. "Because your time has expired for your payments, Your Grace. I am staying here for a full month. If we do not see even a half-payment on the debt, we will be forced to take matter in our own hands."

"How?" Cersei snorted. "Are you going to back Daenerys Targaryen? You do realize she broke your slave trade in Essos?"

"It is not _our_ trade," Tycho said, for the first time having real emotion leaking through his smug demeanor. "Yes, we may profit from it, but we are not slavers, Your Grace."

Cersei smiled her own smug smile. So, the leech _did_ have some genuine personality. He may be a little shit, but at least she knew that he could be needled. Which meant he could really be worked. She had studied at the foot of her father for forty years.

Tywin may have thought she wasn't as clever as she thought. She would prove him wrong. Oh so very wrong. Wasn't she still standing with him in the grave? Or in the burned remnants of Great Sept of Baelor the Blessed as the case was.

"Daenerys Targaryen will not honor any agreement you made with the prior rulers of the realm should you back her," Cersei continued her point. "Nor will her slave army. Slaves keep money, they do not give it away for debt payments. The Dothraki, they are a bunch of rapists and marauders who have no use for gold."

"No, but we have other means of collecting," Tycho assured her. "We have a dozen mercenary armies on stand-by for such times. The most famous being the Golden Company. Oh yes, Your Grace. Those disgraced, exiled Lords of Westeros and legitimized Targaryen bastards have been most eager for a time to return. Yet they would not put the Mother of Dragons on the Throne. No, did you know the Seven Kingdoms actually has a deed holder that if we choose we would give the Kingdoms too?"

Cersei frowned. She understood what a deed was, but the idea that one man had a deed to the entire Realm? There was something utterly preposterous about the idea. Yet as she looked at the banker, she could see that his smugness in this regard was actually founded on a legitimate thing.

"How can you make a deed to a kingdom?" she asked.

"Oh, same as any other deed," the man assured her. "We have arraignments with this man. He was putting tricks over us left and right and costing us a lot of money. Nothing illegal, but it was hurting us. This was the price for his ending of the troubles for the Iron Bank. We'll actually, it's two men who are the deed-holders."

"Whom are these men you speak of?" Cersei asked, rather intrigued by the whole idea. Who could make so much trouble for the Iron Bank that they would do something so preposterous? Ser Arys seemed also very interested in this whole discussion as well, his stance a clear indicator of this.

"I won't divulge their names, Your Grace," Tycho said with a finger held up. "That would be breaking our oath of confidentiality with our clients. However, I will tell you one thing. You actually are well acquainted with one of the two. He has been patient, so very patient. He could call in the deed at any time, but he has been all for waiting to see whom at the end of the wars is the last person standing. However, with this massive debt still owed, we are considering hastening his ascension far sooner than that."

Cersei quickly ran through all the men she knew whom might be the ones who could pull off such a caper. Littlefinger? He wasn't a man who actually went straight at something he wanted, it was certainly his style. Yet she could not imagine the traitor actually being _that_ cunning.

Tyrion? No, he had once told Tywin that he was good at spending money, not saving. He might be out to topple her throne and kill all her remaining family, yet she did not think the little monster was that ambitious.

Varys? He was from Essos, and who knew where his loyalties had ever truly lain. He was a spider, spinning webs to be sure. Yet he had only given good council to those in power and had always worked in the shadows. He was not a man to be in the spotlight, and which greater place of light was there then the throne?

She automatically dismissed Jaime. He was a far lousier fuck then she had ever told him, and he could be spiteful at times. He had certainly been cold to her. All she needed to do though was flash her breasts at him though and he'd be back by her side.

Qyburn? It would be the ultimate irony if her Hand was the one behind this outrageous plot. Yet he was insanely devoted to Cersei and his experiments. She had seen the hard-on he got whenever he was around dead people and saw the potential for furthering his research. No, he would never be into something like this.

"There will be no need for this shadowy figure to step forward if indeed he is real," Cersei said. "By the end of the month, you should be able to take the payments back and the debt will be completely settled."

"If you were able to do this, Your Grace," Tycho remarked, "You would be a legend in your own right."

 _That is exactly what I am,_ Cersei thought to herself but smiled politely at him. She understood how to play people, but they did indeed have a plan ending this war quickly and they would be able to pay off the debt in full. And then she would never have to see this smug prick again.

* * *

"How goes the preparations?" Cersei asked, stepping into the dungeons with Arys Oakheart following close behind.

"Oh, we are most done, Your Grace," Qyburn said, pointing at what was before him. "This is a scorpion, Your Grace. The Dornish used them in the wars against Aegon. They killed a dragon, and we feel the same principle should be capable of being used in our modern age. Dragons haven't changed in the past three hundred years."

The scorpion looked like a crossbow. Only on a more massive scale. It was nearly as long as a full-grown man was, and its height came up near the Qyburn's chin. He was a short man, but Cersei knew that this had to weigh at the very least two-hundred pounds. When she commented on this, Qyburn corrected by giving a smaller number of a hundred eighty.

"You are sure this will work?" Cersei asked, looking at it.

"Most assuredly, Your Grace," the Hand said and turning to Ser Gregor, said, "Come Ser Gregor, let us take this with us."

Ser Gregor stepped up, grabbed the scorpion and lifted it as if were a child. Cersei saw the chin of Ser Arys drop as he saw Gregor lift this heavy object by himself. Forward they moved further into the chambers. The further down they went, the more ominous it looked. Between pillars stuck out great skulls of dragons.

She had very rarely come down to the dungeons themselves. She knew that the dragon skulls had originally been kept in the throne room but Robert had carted them off down here. His ego would not allow anything to make him look smaller than anyone or anything else.

Yet when she had asked why he hadn't destroyed them, he said, "Tell me woman, why don't you murder the whores with fat asses you've fucked? Because it's good to remember who you've fucked and know that you will always have that over them."

It was probably to impress those same fat assed whores he had spoken of. Yet there was always a sense of pride and accomplishment whenever he had come down here. To remind himself that he was able to overcome a dynasty of dragons and that the stag had taken down the three-headed dragon.

"Now the dragons have returned," Cersei said to herself.

"Yes," Qyburn said, mistaking her comment as being directed towards him. It hadn't but it was fine all the same. "We will give them the same treatment the Dornish gave the Meraxes, the dragon of Rhaenys Targaryen, sister-wife of Aegon."

"Forgive me for questioning you, Hand," Arys said from behind them. "But I have fought in many battles and seen many things. Something that worked in one instance does not always work in another."

"Oh, most true," Qyburn agreed, "There is always differences to be taken into account."

"Exactly!" Arys said, "How can you be certain that this can actually take down a dragon? For all we know, the Dornish have lied about this accomplishment, just to make themselves look better?"

"Perhaps our good Hand will be able to alleviate any concerns you may have, Ser Oakheart," Cersei said sweetly, even though inwardly she was annoyed that anyone would question her Hand.

"Indeed," Qyburn said, and with a great big smile he held out his hands to either side of them. "Here we are! Set it right here, my good Ser Gregor. That's a good lad."

Gregor, who had not grunted once in the long walk through the chambers, set the scorpion down on the ground at the exact position Qyburn asked. And before them stood Balerion the Black Dread. His skull was larger than a carriage, spikes sticking out from the back. Cersei walked up slowly to the skull, each step growing a sense of wonderment at the sheer size of the brute. How a monster he must have been in life!

"Aegon the Conqueror conquered the Seven Kingdoms with Balerion," she said, running her hand on the dry bone. She could feel every imperfection in the bone, but each imperfection was as large as her hand. And stronger by far. "Now his bitch of a descendant wants to take what my husband took by right of conquest."

"And thus we teach her the price of trying to take what was taken," Qyburn said. "If you would come back her, my Queen, I would like you to fire the first shot."

Cersei wanted to reveal in the moment. So, as she walked back she kept her head held high, as she was about to prove or disprove the Dornish myth. Qyburn was loading a massive bolt of steel onto the scorpion and by the time she got there, it was ready.

"All you need to do is pull that lever towards you," Qyburn pointed to a wooden handle. Cersei gripped it, and without further adieu, pulled the trigger. With a crack and crunch that sounded much louder in the closed chambers, the bolt lanced forth, and smashed into the dragon skull in the eye, pieces of bone flying as they were broken.

"How many do we have?" Qyburn asked.

"We have a dozen ready to go, Your Grace," Qyburn informed her. "And it does swivel, you our brave soldiers can track the moving dragons and hit them, if their aim be true."

Cersei could not help but smile. She had her weapon to smite the monsters from the sky. How she hoped Daenerys would be foolish enough to come with her beasts of flame and fire so she could extinguish them like her husband before her.


	16. Epi 2, Ch 9: Jon

***Jon***

Winter certainly had changed the landscape. No longer were there gently rolling hills covered in green grass. There trees no longer brown bark and green leaves. The flocks of sheep that had dotted the land when he had gone to the Wall were no longer around. The rivers still trudged along, but instead of having strong currents had slowed to a crawl, pieces of ice pulled along with the current. Little brooks and creeks had completely dried up, replaced with now.

Now the North was a monotone wasteland. There was no variation of color. The sky was always a tint of grey. Even when the sun managed to pop out from behind clouds heavy with snow or just hanging up there in the sky, it did little to change what the landscape was like.

 _This is my kingdom,_ Jon thought to himself as they pushed forward through the snow-covered King's Road. _I am King Snow, ruling over a land of snow._

He might have thought it was funny, had it not been so serious. The Long Night was not yet upon them. No, as soon as the Others attacked the wall, then it would officially be the Long Night. This was the calm before the storm, and he hoped against hope that they would be prepared.

Yet he had a sinking feeling that they would never truly be prepared. The War of the Five Kings now was a curse they could hardly have afforded. The North had truly only roughly six thousand fighting men. If the Men of the Crannock had ever deigned to come from their bogs, they may have had another thousand proven men, but they weren't forth coming. Even if they put sword, spear and bow in the hand of every man, woman and child in the North, how many could they truly count on? Less than twenty thousand?

He glanced over at Tormund, whose beard and fire-kissed hair had collected so much snow, he looked like a child's snow knight. The Free Folk only had about four thousand people total. Half of their fighting men had died during the Battle of the Bastards, denying the North of a thousand strong men. If they were not extremely careful, the Free Folk would cease to be.

We'll all cease to be, Jon knew. Suddenly he had a much clearer understanding of the mind of Mance Ryder. He had warned Jon continuously of the threat of the White Walkers. Jon had known that they were evil and hated all life. Yet he had never understood just how dangerous a threat they were until Hardhome.

 _Hardhome._ Even in the bright light of day…..okay, so it wasn't bright anymore. Still though, in the lighter grey of day, he found himself shivering at the memory of those horrible half hour. It had been such a short time, yet in a few minutes, almost a hundred thousand Free Folk had been overrun, killed, then risen again.

He didn't know what was more horrifying, even now, and he had been able to think over it again and again. The White Walker stepping through the fire, extinguishing it? The extreme cold that had fallen over the entirety of Hardhome, so cold that it had made moving difficult? The mass of uindead that threw themselves off a mountain, fell over a hundred feet to the ground, but still get up to chase them? The undead clawing their way through thick logs and under sturdy gates like rats? Was it the dead Wildlings rising to join the ranks of the undead?

Or was it the Night King, staring straight at him. He had felt a connection of sort as the two had stared at each other's eyes as they rowed to the safety of King Stannis' fleet. There was a boundless hatred for all living in those cold blue eyes. There was also a challenge.

 _You…..I'm coming for you, little man. Run as fast as you can, fight me as hard as you can, raise all the armies you want. I will be there when your legs can no longer run. I will still be there when your arms can no longer lift your notched sword. Your armies will fall and rise again to be mine. This is between you and me, Crow. I am Death, the first enemy and the last. And I always win._

"But I will keep fighting, until my very last breath and beyond," Jon said. No, no words had passed between the two, but that was an impression that he had gotten. That the Night King had specifically singled him out as worthy of attention. He might have thought it was because he had killed one of his lieutenants. Yet, it had nothing to do with that. He was certain of it.

"That is a very noble sentiment, Crow," Tormund said. Jon hadn't realized he had spoken aloud and started that he was being addressed. "Yet now that you are some sort of God with a teeny pecker, perhaps you don't even need to fight. No, just turn around, bend over, and blast balls of fire from your ass. That will do just nicely!"

"Yeah…." Jon grimaced, "I don't think it works like that."

"Then what good are you, I say!" Tormund thumped his chest once. "Tormund Giantsbane will be the God and you will be the wee man. And I will fuck every bear we come across and we shall create real skin-changers that can change from man to bear at will and one shall be called Beorn!"

"That's a stupid name," Jon commented with a mock serious expression. "What next? You'll have giant ravens fly these skin-changers into battle, and drop them towards the wights and they'll change midair into bear form and land unharmed from a distance that should kill them? Sounds like a very silly idea."

"Just wait until a wizard name Petyr of House Jackson creates a moving tapestry where he makes the pictures move on it for nine plus hours when the entire tale could easily be covered in two," one of the Bolton men called out, stomping through the snow.

"And all the heroes shall be fourteen dwarves but one who really isn't a dwarf but one of the Children of the Forest," a wildling who was walking alongside them called out.

"Oh really?" Jon asked, suddenly very interested in this tale they were creating. "And what would these heroes be doing, I wonder?"

The Bolton man pondered it for a few moments. "Well, Your Grace," he said, taking a lot of thought as he spoke. "They would be trying to reclaim the dwarves home which is a large solitary mountain in the east and the Child of the Forest would be chosen for his sneaking abilities. They would of course have a wizard who dresses all in grey."

"And why did they lose their home?" another man down the line asked, the man looking the very epitome of a snow monster. The man was a very large man.

"A dragon murdered their entire kingdom which was in the mountain," a wildling joined in. "So they go to kill the dragon and they will be captured by a great kingdom of men that live deep in a forest of ever night where spiders as large as hounds roam."

The Boltons and Free Folk descended into a discussion all about the names of the dwarves and the wizard. What type of place the Child of the Forest lived in and how he got roped into helping the quest to kill the dragon and reclaim their home. At one point they came up with the idea of them using barrels to escape from the kitchens of the Forest King because the barrels were dropped into a river that ran out to a large lake where a city of water folk had built their city.

* * *

On the third day of their journey they took a rest near midday, and they all ate some food. The four men that had started the story about the thirteen dwarves, wizard and the Child of the Forest, had been at it ever since the day before, now going into how this magical ring that could turn the Child of the Forest invisible was passed to his nephew and how it actually belonged to a great and evil wizard king.

Jon walked through the snow and trees, making sure to keep the voices of the group well within hearing. There had been only three desertions so far, but he doubted they'd find any solace. They were now deep in Wolfs Wood, the massive forest that covered a vast portion of the lands between Winterfell and the Wall. There was little that was out here to give refuge to sulkers and cowards. Those men had probably frozen to death, if not flat out killed by wolves or men.

After only a few minutes, he came to the edge of the woods and before him was a large lake. Known as Long Lake, it would have taken nearly four days to walk around the entire lake, if not longer. The water hadn't yet frozen, given a very steel blue look to the tranquil water. On the other end of the lake, in this rather remarkably clear day, he could see the Lonely Hills, a range that swept over most of the east side of the lake. On the other side of the Lonely Hills he knew the Dreadfort lay.

There was no lord currently ruling at the Dreadfort. The Lord of the Dreadfort had been the Boltons, but that line was entirely wiped out. He'd have to call someone to rule it, for it was an important bastion of the North and they'd need all the strongpoints they could if the Wall should be breached. Chaos caused by a vacancy in lordship did not lend itself to helping that situation.

There was so much to do in preparation for the war to come, and yet he knew that the days were slipping by too fast for comfort. Bran's message had been quite clear. _The Army of the Dead is about to move._ It would have taken the raven a day to get from the Wall to Winterfell. So depending on when exactly he had learned that the Dead were about to march, they could already be within sight of the Wall. They still hand roughly four days of marching to Castle Black, and it'd take another two for both the Bolton men and the Free Folk to make it to both Sentinel Stand and Eastwatch-By-The-Sea.

Six days, almost a full week to get everyone in place. And they'd still not be enough. There were nineteen castles in total along the wall, and with the addition of the Bolton men, it would only bring it up to four that were manned. Stannis had promised him that once he had gained the throne, he'd send twenty thousand men north and they'd be able to man all the castles. The first time in almost two centuries where that had been the case.

Yet he had died. Even if Stannis had taken Winterfell, there was no promise that he'd take King's Landing before the Wall was attacked, if ever. Now Jon was King, but even if he sent every man he had to the Wall, they might not even be able to fix up the castles to the point where they would be serviceable.

Time was running out, and he realized what Mance Ryder had been trying to tell him when he refused to bend the knee to Stannis. Heavy is the head that wears the Crown. It wasn't just his own pride that was to be considered. It was everyone else. If they wouldn't submit, then they wouldn't follow the example of their King and they'd do what they still wished.

That's why he could never try to get Daenerys Targaryen as an ally. The North simply would refuse to trust her. That refusal to trust would be their undoing even if she agreed to it. They needed a united front against the Others, and now was _not_ the time to let petty jealousies and ancient hatreds cloud their judgement.

Besides, Jon was not nearly as naïve as everyone thought he was. The only men who hadn't demanded he kneel was Mance Ryder and Stannis. And Stannis simply didn't ask because the Night's Watch were politically neutral and he could not lawfully have demanded Jon to kneel. Yet Stannis _had_ tried to convince him to become the Warden of the North and take on the name Stark, his father's name. Yet Stannis had make sure to say that he'd have had to bend the knee to get that.

"Jon Stark," Jon said, saying the name aloud. No, it didn't sound right. "I am Jon Snow. I am a bastard. I wear my bastardness like armor. The world refuses to let me forget that I am what I am. I am a bastard and they cannot hurt me anymore in that knowledge."

* * *

It was roughly three days later when they arrived at the boundary of Brandon's Gift. Brandon the Builder, King in the North and founder of House Stark, had built the Wall with the aid of giants if the tales were true. He had also granted the Gift to the Wall for their substance. It technically wasn't ruled by the North although it was a part of it. It had later been expanded to include the New Gift.

They could see the Wall as a very small smidge in the distance, but it was here that Jon and company was greeted by a company of a dozen Brother's of the Nights Watch. Jon held up his hand and the company halted.

"We have been sent from Castle Black to lead you men the rest of the way," the foremost rider, a brother that he did not know. "Lord Commander Eddison Tollett feels that we should get you to your castles as soon as possible and take your vows as soon as possible. How many men are with you?"

"We've had a dozen desertions from the Bolton me," Jon said, "But Captain Yohn Chast still remains along with a hundred and eighty-eight of his men."

"They won't be his men for much longer," one of the brothers commented and the rest of the company chuckled at the jape.

"The men from Bolton will follow these seven brothers to Sentinel Stand," the lead rider said, pointing to the men on his right. Jon almost would have said his left, but he generally got confused when he tried to think of directions when a person wasn't standing the same direction he was.

"The wildlings will follow these three men here to Eastwatch-By-the-Sea," the man continued. "How many did you manage to bring with you?"

"Just shy nine hundred," Tormund said, refusing to allow Jon to speak for them.

"By all the Gods Old and New!" one of the riders cursed. "How in Seven Hells are we supposed to feed you all? We barely have enough as it is for us!"

"Don't worry," Tormund said with a wicked grin. "Thenns told me that Crow easily makes up for a week of meal."

The riders of the Eastwatch group were uneasy as he said this. Jon knew Tormund's humor, and he almost wished he could be at Eastwatch to see how they would handle the Free Folk's sense of humor. But there was no time. He still had one most important task to do.

"Bolton men with us!" one of the seven called to the Bolton's, and with grunting and complaining about wanting rest, the Boltons followed lead rider, the rest of the riders falling in to either side of the group at equal pacing, hands on sword hilts just in case in was necessary.

"Remember, Your Grace!" Yohn Chaste shouted before he was carried to far away. "Your sister will betray you! She's _not_ to be trusted!"

"Wildlings follow us," the smallest of the three Eastwatch riders commanded, waving them forward.

"Free Folk," Jon corrected him. "They are the Free Folk."

The rider rolled his eyes, not realizing whom he was being addressed by. The rest of the wildling host began to move forward but Tormund didn't budge. Him and Jon held their gazes for a few long moments.

"This is it, isn't it?" Tormund asked.

"I think it is," Jon agreed. "Next time we see each other, the Army of the Dead will be at the Wall. If not after."

"If you do anything crazy like head North beyond the Wall," Tormund said, "Count me in."

"Always."

"Oh, and tell the Big Woman that I mean to have monster babies with her that will conquer the world," Tormund said with a massive grin.

Jon laughed at that. "I doubt she'll find that amusing," he remarked.

Silence fell between them They stared a little longer at each other and then, with no words passed between them, Jon held out his hand. Tormund took it and they griped tightly. There was a war to come, and the next time they saw each other, they were going to be up to their shoulders in blood and the Dead were going to be an unstoppable wave.

Reluctnatly letting go of each other, Tormund turned his horse and rode forward. Even though the Wildlings and Boltons were still marching past to either side, Jon felt alone. Much more alone than he had felt in years. He turned from the retreating form of Tormund, which was becoming no more than a blur of snow, and the two remaining Brothers were all there were besides him.

"Did you bring no guards, Your Grace?" the leader said. It was odd that now there was only two Brothers and a King in the snow.

"You've all killed me once before when I was with those whom I had sworn to my life to defending," Jon reminded him, his voice taking on an edge of steel to it. "If you are going to kill me, you'll find a way."

There was a moment of awkwardness between them. Did they feel badly about what had happened? He didn't know the lead rider, but he knew the other one. Name was Jamar, from Hornhill. He had been caught fucking a noble's daughter. He had sworn it was consensual but the noble had called it rape. It was either the knife or the Wall for him. He chose to keep his stones rights where they were, at the base of his pillar.

"Your Grace will follow us," Jamar said, and Jon did so, right through the snow of winter and through the bleak landscape.

It would take the rest of that days and the next to arrive at Castle Black. Little was said between them, and he never even learned the lead riders name. Yet as they arrived near the southern gate to Castle Black, his mind went back to the happy moment when he had first arrived. Here they were all Brothers, one family. It didn't matter what your name was, if you had a family name, a bastard name or no name. Even bastards could rise high here. There was no limit to what one could accomplish here.

The gate swung open and he rode in, behind the others. Into the courtyard he knew so well he rode and members of the Nights Watch that knew him kept clear. The memory of his leaving the Nights Watch and his murder had many of them on edge.

 _Good,_ Jon thought, as he dismounted. _Let them hide._

"Jon!" Dolores Edd called out, and turned to see him walking across the courtyard. He looked far older then he had even a couple of months beforehand. "Or should I call you, Your Grace, you glorious bastard?"

"Edd," Jon said, walking up to him as a brother took the reins of his horse and led her away. "I never thought to see you again."

"Tell me truly," Dolores Edd asked as he came to a stop infront of Jon, "Did you ever get warm?"

"No," Jon shook his head.

The two laughed and embraced. At least they were still comfortable around each other. It helped that Edd hadn't been one of the traitors that plunged a knife into him. He had even guarded his dead body, fetching Ghost to help keep watch.

"You look good," Edd said, pulling back and looking at him. "But I assume you want to see your brother."

"Yes," Jon agreed. "Where is he?"

"This way," Edd said, and turning, led him towards the maester's chambers. As they walked, climbing the wooden stairs, Edd gave a running commentary. "They were stuck out in a blizzard and his companion had succumbed to the elements. Queenscrown sent us a maester two months back, shortly before that Battle of the Bastards we've heard so much about. Was that your doing?"

"Aye," Jon acknowledged, as they approached the door to the chambers. "One of my last acts as Lord Commander was to send a raven to them. They are part of the New Gift and there is no way I was going to leave Castle Black without a maester. If the Others attack the Wall, we need to know. It would have been foolishness to leave you without one."

"Thinking of without," Edd said, "Where's Ghost? He was always attached to you."

"He's back at Winterfell," Jon said, the door opening. "I wanted him to be where he could keep an eye on my sister."

Jon entered the chambers and he looked at the solitary bed. A young woman was laying on there, deep in a feverish sleep, sweat beading her forehead. He could see that clearly in the light from the open window. Sitting next to her on a chair was a young man, that honestly looked almost nothing like the little kid he left comatose at Winterfell. His fingers were curled around the young woman's, and he was situated in a protective stance.

"Hello Jon," Bran said, looking up at him, "Long time no see."

"Bran!" Jon said, stepping forward to him. He was extremely happy to hear his voice. "Why don't you stand and give your brother a hug?"

Bran frowned. "You do realize I'm crippled from the waist down now," he said. "Sansa did mention it to you before you left Winterfell and to be braced for it. True though, I'm sure it's easy to forget with your own troubles, which make mine seem to pale by comparison. I imagine the last time you were in here was when Maester Aemon was still around though. And the last time you saw me was lying on the bed with my mother telling you off."

This was…..a lot of words about stuff he shouldn't really know about. Jon glanced back at Edd who shrugged. "He does that now," was all the Lord Commander said.

Jon stepped up and gave his brother a hug which the only real fully Stark male gave full-heartedly back. They had never thought they'd see each other again, and yet here they were. At the Wall, where they had always talked of going to see together.


	17. Epi 2, Ch 10: Arya

***Arya***

"Join us!" a cheerful voice called out to Arya.

She turned her eyes to find the voice. Below her, a little off to the left of the road, there was a camp of about eight men sitting around a campfire. As her eyes swept the camp, she noted at once the red armor on each soldier. They were Lannisters as sure as day.

"Come share our fire, little lady!" the voice called out again.

"Are you sure about that?" she asked back, "I could be a murderer for all you know."

The soldiers laughed at that. The one who had called out to her was a dirty golden haired soldier who gave an amused smile. She found it rather cute at how naïve and oblivious were when she said exactly what she could be.

"I think we'll take our chances," he said. "Come, our fire is nice and warm!"

Arya dismounted and dropped from the horse to the ground. It was far more difficult than people thought for a rather small person like herself to drop from the height of a horse to the ground. The ground was hard, cold having transformed the entire region into a hard crust, and only a few leaves still clung desperately to their trees. She had heard reports that everything north of the Neck was starting to get a lot of snow and places like Winterfell and beyond were completely covered in snow. Some said that the Fever River, which marked the northern end of the Neck, was where the snow had progressed the farthest south.

Yet here, just two days ride from Crossroads Inn, there was no snow. But winter was being no kinder to the region.

She walked to the group, her eyes glancing around the camp. All the men seemed to be in a cheerful mood, and she could smell a strong stench of black mulberry wine. One of the men had a lazy eye but they were not so wary of the wilds. She spotted all of their swords, resting against a log, out of easy reach of them all.

 _Fools,_ she thought to herself.

Tying her horse up to a tree, she gave the beast a nice rub before joining them sitting. She took a proffered seat next to the dirty golden haired man. The log was equally hard, harder than the saddle she had been riding, but it was a little different and she was at least a little contented.

"There you go!" one of the men, a large fellow with a nose that had been broken a few times said, clapping his hand. "So, tell us. What is a little murderer like you doing out and about in the woods all alone?"

"I would ask you all the same thing," she replied. "Winter is here, shouldn't you be south or over at Casterly Rock?"

"No rest for us," Lazy Eyes said, his words brought a couple of them to shaking their heads.

"Ever since the mass assassination at the Twins the whole Lannister army is on high alert," dirty golden hair said. "We have been sent to patrol the Riverlands to make sure that there is no unrest until we can get an army up there to secure it from Edmund Tully."

"Edmure," one of the other corrected.

Dirty Golden Hair rolled his eyes. "Anyways, I'm Edward of House Sheeran," he introduced himself. "These guys call me Ed, and so can you. We have Lazy Eye Tim sitting next to me. Then we have Wolly Bak (a gods awful name if you ask me). He likes to kick people in balls for some reason. Then we got Temme of Sarsfield. The big guy with the ugly nose we call Ox. His little brother Mik is sitting next to him. We're pretty sure he's queer, if you understand my meaning."

"I'm not!" Mik objected to which there was a chorus of the others saying he was a liar and should just give into his obsession for cock and be open about it. Yet the way they were teasing him, Arya was sure that wasn't the case.

"Then we have Jaqen from Hornvale," Ed said, pointing to the man who had just put spout of canteen to mouth and was drinking. "Then the last two are Joffrey and Aemon. They are two cousin from Ashemark. Aemon is a filthy animal."

As if to accentuate the point, Aemon let loose a loud, wet and rumbling belch. Then, he twisted himself a little and lifted his left butt-cheek, and let loose an equally wet sounding fart. Joffrey, whom looked nothing like Joffrey the now dead king, gave a weird look while the rest waved their hands infront of their faces in a van effort to keep the smell away. Arya nearly gagged on the fart, it was so strong that even in this open camp, it was strong.

"Seven Hells!" Lazy Eye Tim snapped. "Could you really not do that?"

"Especially when we have a lady with us," Ed said.

"Oh, stop being so uptight," Aemon replied, a smug smile on his face. "You are just wound up because your wife just dropped a baby."

"Really?" Arya asked. She really loved babies. It was one of the few things she was unwilling to kill. At least…..that she had no reason to yet. "What is it?"

"Just because I'm from a House doesn't mean I get ravens," he remarked sadly. "One of the problems with being from a very minor House that no one knows about."

Arya could understand. During her entire time in Essos, she had never once heard anything about her family or the doings of Westeros until the very end. The only reason she had learned was because she had seen a play by the Lady Crane. People seemed to always underestimate just how much information didn't get passed throughout the world. In fact, it wasn't until she was posing as Walder Frey that she had learned about her brother Jon being King in the North.

"What do you want?" Arya asked. "Boy or girl?"

"Girl to be sure!" Ed said with enthusiasm. "Boys grow up and get themselves killed. But girls, they tend to their father in their old age. That's what my wife is doing, even as she raises our newborn, whatever it is."

"So you never told us who you were and what you are doing," Lazy Eye Tim, handing her a partially full skin. "Don't worry, its mulberry wine of my own make."

"Only if you are old enough," Ox said, holding up his hands just in case she got angry.

"I'm No One," she said, lifting the skin. "What I'm doing is taking one of your faces, will wear it down to King's Landing, where I will then kill Queen Cersei and her brother Jaime Lannister."

The group was silent as she put the skin to her lips and drank the mulberry wine. Then they all roared with laughter and as she put down the skin, a smile on her face as they thought she was having a good joke. Ed patted her on the back and she thought to herself three words.

 _You'll be first._

"Sing us a song, Ed!" Joffrey called out, "Sing us _Hands of Gold!"_

"Never heard of that one," Arya commented.

"It's about Tyrion Lannister when he was Hand of the King and his relationship with a whore," Ed said frowing. "Although whatever happened to the singer still isn't actually known. He disappeared shortly after singing it."

Then clearing his throat, he began singing.

* * *

Slowly Arya crept through the camp. Ed Sheeran was taking the first watch, sitting with his back to the fire. He was singing softly to himself the words that they had sung earlier. He had mentioned it was a favorite of his.

" _She was his shame and was his bliss_ ," he was singing softly, keeping his voice low so the others could sleep. " _And a chain and a keep are nothing. Compared to a woman's kiss."_

Her hand snaked around his mouth and with a cloth in her hand covered his mouth tightly. Violently she pulled Ed to her chest, the back of his head shoved against her small breasts. He started, not sure what to do as the knife pressed against his throat. He stopped moving as the blade pressed against his lips.

"Nothing compares to the blade of No One," she whispered to him and leaning down, placed a kiss on his forehead. Then, she pulled the blade, cutting deep into his throat. He gurgled blood and gagged, but she kept him pressed firmly in place, clenching even harder to muffle any sounds coming from his mouth.

She felt a deep sense of satisfaction as she moved through the camp. The men were sleeping pretty closely to each other. But a quick plunge of the blade into Aemon's heart, a quick but strong thrust into Lazy Tim's skull, a quick slice of blade across Temme of Sarsfield's throat snuffed out life one by one. She had never understood the sheer calm and satisfaction that death and killing brought until she had killed her first kills in the inn, in what seemed a lifetime ago. Back when she was with the Hound.

Too bad he was dead. She had dropped him off her list by the time the fight happened with the big woman. She would have liked to keep journeying around Westeros with him, but what she had learned in the House of Black and White had been too valuable to have missed. So in many ways, as much as she wished that she could have gone on adventures with Gregor Clegane, she was glad he had died. It had pushed her to Braavos, under the Titan's shield.

After she had killed all but one, she kicked him hard in his balls. Joffrey shot up, bending over, gripping his manhood. He grunted as the pain shot through him.

"Wolly, you piece of shite!" he groaned, "What the Seven Hells man? Stop doing that!"

"Wolly isn't going to be kicking anyone in the balls anymore," Arya assured him. "Nor is Ed going to sing and met his baby. Aemon isn't going to farting and belching like a filthy animal. And Mik, well, we aren't ever going to find out if actually was ever queer or not. Oh, and Lazy Eye? He's not making any mulberry wine anymore."

Joffrey looked up at her, sleepy-eyed but growing more alert. He was squinting as he looked up at her, and she wasn't quite sure what made him first suspect something was wrong. Was it her words? Was it the knife at her side? Or was it the blood that the full moon and firelight showed was on her and dripping off her blade?

"I have a list you know," she continued. "Of people I'm going to kill. King Joffrey was on my list. At the very top. He died before I could exact my revenge for him taking my father's head. You will do though. You share his name-"

Next thing she knew was she was being thrown back by the man. He had bowled her over with his head, striking her full in the stomach. The sudden motion had taken her off-guard and only by the slimmest of hairs was she able to keep her knife. He flattened her out on her back, and he was quickly on top of her. With a twist of wrist and a twirl of her fingers, she reversed the direction of the blade and lashed forward.

The other man was too fast though and he caught her wrist and twisted hard. She gasped as bones began to creak from the pressure. At the same time, he landed a blow right on her face, her nose breaking. She dropped the knife but she wasn't done yet. Thrust her hand up, she curled her nails, which were actually longer than one would expect from her time in Braavos and the wild, and latched around the base of his ear. Her nails dug into the skin of his ear and he yelped in pain as she proceeded to pull.

Another blow landed across her jaw. Again and again blows landed until she let go of her ear. She went for his face this time, curling her thumb and driving into his eye. The man yelped as she applied pressure to the eye and with this pressure she forced him off her and back. But Joffrey wasn't done yet. Even as he was yelping from the thumb to the eye, he kneed her hard, in the gut. She no longer had her dagger but gripped his throat with her other hand, trying to crush his windpipe by digging into his skin.

They tripped over one of the dead bodies and they landed, the force of the fall causing them to roll apart. But they were on their feet soon enough, bloodied by each other. Joffrey jumped to the log where all their swords were laid and grabbed two of them, spinning them expertly in his hands.

"You should have killed me when I was sleeping, you little bitch!" he snarled, the fire giving him a hellish glow. "I am one of the best swordsmen of the Lannister army!"

Arya swished out _Needle_ which had the entire time been dangling from the scabbard as she had fought him. She took up a Water Dancing position of sword point held towards her opponent and other hand on hip.

"I was trained by both the First Sword of Braavos, Syrio Feral and the Faceless Men assassins," she said, this fight actually getting her blood pumping, something she hadn't expected. "Bring it!"

They charged at each other, swords glinting in the light and just as _Needle_ lanced out and his left handed-sword swung to knock it aside, a flurry of motion obscured her view and Joffrey went down. Arya looked and a wolf was tearing at Joffrey's the swordsmen flailing as the wolf tore at him. Out of the woods wolf after wolf jumped into the firelight, snarling as they descended upon a fallen soldier, tearing into the bodies.

One wolf was charging for Arya, Arya holding _Needle_ to face him when another, much larger shadow entered the firelight. The creature snarled and the wolf came to a full stop just a mere two feet from her. The other wolves continued their tearing of the flesh as Arya's horse screamed in the night, trying to get free of the area.

The most massive wolf approached Arya, snarling. As the light caught her light grey coat and dark grey marking, Arya knew whom this was. This wasn't a wolf. It was…. _Nymeria_.

"Nymeria?" she asked, slowly dropping to a knee to put _Needle_ down. But Nymeria barked at her, causing her to back up. "Nymeria, it's me! Arya."

Nymeria didn't stop though, coming closer and sniffing Arya. Then she snapped at Arya, causing her to jump back a step.

"Nymeria, girl, it's me!" Arya tried to beg the direwolf but it kept advancing on her, driving her back. Further from the campfire and the light it provided. Nymeria kept snarling, snaping at her if Arya slowed even a second. Arya bumped into a tree, Nymeria lunging a few inches at Arya. Arya backpedaled and bumped right into something that made her start. She turned her head ever so slightly, and her panicked horse was prancing around, terror in her face.

Nymeria snapped at Arya and without fully taking her eyes off Nymeria, Arya did her best to climb the jittery horse. It was hard, as it wouldn't stop moving and Arya didn't have the strength to hold it still. Somehow though, she managed to get on the beast and she noted how Nymeria was almost as big as the horse was. Nymeria kept snarling at her as Arya gripped the reins in one hand, and slashed the portion of the reins that held the horse tied to the tree. Then, the horse bolted into the night and Arya clung for dear life as the horse bolted onto the road and away, instinct driving it into the night.

A wolf howled in the night. Not a wolf, Arya realized. A direwolf.

 _To be continued in episode 3: **The Queen's Justice** , starting on Tuesday the 19th._

* * *

 _ **Episode Notes:**_

 _ **-This is the longest episode there will be. This episode was a whopping 59 pages long. My current page count for the entire series including the Prologue Episode is 103 pages, and that's at a size 11 Calibri font. Next episode is going to be far shorter. **_

_**-Shoutout to the Guest (I'd say their screen name but they only posted as Guest) who reminded me of the apology scene between Sansa and Jon in Season 6 at Castle Black. I'd forgotten about that scene entirely, so it inspired a rather interesting story-idea of Jon and Sansa focusing on different aspects of their childhood. And no, I'm not changing it.**_

 _ **-Why do I use "fook" at times? It's quiet simple. A lot of the actors for the show, the way they talk, it comes out as "fook". Aiden Gillian, who plays Littlefinger, has been made the butt of many jokes on GOT podcasts for the way he pronounces it.**_

 _ **-I did kill Ed Sheeran in this story. Why? I don't hate the guy, in fact, I didn't even know whom he was until they announced he was guest appearing. But since so many have hated his cameo, I felt it fitting to name him Edward of House Sheeran and kill him. Actually, I was pretty certain she was going to kill them all in their sleep and I was very surprised when she didn't.**_

 _ **-Why didn't I have Sam cure Jorah? Because, you are telling me, the cure for grey scale is to cut off the infected skin and put a poultice on it? If it so simple, why didn't Eborose, who is an Archmaester who has been at the Citadel for years and specializes it seems in the medical side of things, unwilling to perform it while an acolyte who has no experience with surgery besides stabbing and shooting people to death can cure him? Especially when we know it's much worse than a skin disease, since it affects the mind as well.**_

 _ **-On that last point, what is the point of Jorah in the show anymore? Honestly, there isn't any except to make googly eyes at Dany's "Good Heart" and to give his blessing to potential suitors. So, instead, his grey scale will play a far more important role in the War for the Dawn. Also, I wasn't the originator of the "Jorah the Explorer" gag, I first heard that on an email that was sent into a Spoilore Edition podcast for the Game of Thrones podcast. I've loved it so much I thought it'd be fun to make a big joke about it in the episode.**_

 _ **-I make at least three pop-culture references. Dora the Explorer, The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings Trilogy (both books and films) including Petyr of House Jacksen. I also make a**_ **Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda** _ **reference. The character of Harper gets infected by Magog eggs and the only way to keep them from hatching is for him to take medicine on a daily basis. It keeps them in stasis and if he fails to do so, they will hatch and he will die. I used that to inspire the Jorah having to take the Time Giver medicine, the medicine being an original idea of my own and not a canonical thing.**_

 _ **-I have been reading**_ **The World of Ice and Fire _as I've been writing this. The Dothraki name for Westeros, Rhaesh Andahli, the history of the Andal invasion and Garth Greenhand's Kingdom of the Reach are all mentioned and explored in this book._**

 ** _-For the geographical side of Westeros, I've been using_** ** _/. They have perhaps the single best map of Westeros on the web._**

 ** _-I have been bringing a lot of the books into this fanfic series. Arianna Martell is the oldest child of Doran Martell and she did indeed have an affair with Arys Oakheart, Kings Guard. But it was all part of a master plan of Doran and Oberyn's to place Myrcella on the throne and declare for the Targaryens. They were playing a very long con that the show simply refused to do._**

 ** _-Tycho Nestoris tells Cersei that someone basically has a deed to the Seven Kingdoms. This is a book theory that I have liked. There are two characters (not going to spoil whom they are!) spent their youth robbing from the rich. They were so good at stealing, they decided upon a con where they would steal an item of value from a house. Then, they would offer their services to "find" this item for a price. If the person would agree to the price, they'd "find" it and get the reward money. They became so good at it, they decided to basically do this with the Seven Kingdoms, "stealing it" and then returning it for a massive profit. Everything up to the Seven Kingdoms part is actually established fact. The Seven Kingdoms part is the theory where these two people are playing a long con with the entire continent._**

 ** _-Littlefinger was wasted this season in Winterfell. He should have been working his magic on the Northern lords, since they should have been easier to manipulate._**

 ** _-I didn't realize I hadn't had any Ghost until Jon was at Castle Black! Ghost will be in this series, but it's actually kinda hard to remember to put characters in that have no actual speaking lines._**

 ** _-I was rather surprised that Tyrion would know of Myrcella's death when he was in Essos when she died. I honestly feel it's more true if he shows up in Westeros, thinking she's still alive, setting up for potential conflicts between Tyrion and Dany's camp if he should learn about it._**

 ** _-Last thing I want to point out: the little Child of the Forest that appeared in Bran's greenseeing and showed him Azor Ahai forging_ Lightbringer _. Watch this character closely! He's not what he seems to be!_**


	18. Epi 3: The Queens Justice, Ch 1: Jon

**Episode 3: The Queens Justice**

 ***Jon***

Jon sat in the chair next to the fire, not sure what to make of it. He had just been listening to Bran tell him about his adventures beyond the Wall up north. He hard all about caves under trees, old me stuck in them, Hodor's sacrifice and Summer's death. Yet…..he honestly didn't know what to make of Bran and his supposed 'powers'.

"You are telling me," Jon said, as Bran came to the end of his story, about how they had arrived to Castle Black in a blizzard, "That you somehow can see what has happened in the past? That is…well, highly unlikely Bran. Impossible even."

"You have seen the Night King raise his arms and the dead arise to do his bidding," Bran said reproachfully, "and yet it's the idea that a person can see into the past breaks your ability to believe?"

Jon shrugged. Anyone who had been there at Hardhome could easily have told his little brother about that. Shit! Bran had been there for over a week before Jon had shown up. What else had Edd told Bran that he could 'pretend' to have seen the past?

"When Jeor Mormont was attacked by the wight in his chambers and you tossed the burning hot lantern at it and set it on fire, the world you understood changed," Bran said, settled into his chair as comfortably as he could get.

Although Jon wondered just how much he'd be able to feel of the wood on the chair, being paralyzed. Jon had felt immensely stupid after forgetting Bran was paralyzed and chastised him for not getting on his feet to give him a hug. Jon pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the mantle of the fireplace and leaned against it.

"The world has changed," Jon agreed, "Yet the ability to see the past is a thing of myth and legends. Nothing more."

A silence fell between the two. Jon looked at the crackling fire, letting it fill his vision. Seeming to burn the world, a world of fire filled his mind. He wouldn't mind it one bit, it'd certainly be warmer then this Gods forsaken place!

Enough of this nonsensical talk. There were more important things to discuss. Like getting south to Castle Black before the next blizzard hit, which could be anytime now.

If they got stuck here, how long would it be before it cleared? How much snow would be on the ground? How long would it slow them down in their travels? He had already risked losing a lot of time coming here in the first place.

"So, we need to be heading back to Winterfell sooner than later," he finally said, still looking into the fire. "I think we should head out in the morning."

"We can't leave just yet!" Bran objected.

"Why?" Jon asked, turning to him. "I need to get back to Winterfell, Bran. Sansa is dying to see you again."

Bran shook his head and crossed his arms. "Maester Lexxa says that Meera shouldn't be moved for another week!" Bran said stubbornly. "If we leave tomorrow, we'll be forced to leave her behind, and I can't do that."

"Oh, right," Jon smiled sympathetically with Bran. He understood what Bran was enduring right now. He had been forced to make the same decision himself. Leave Ygritte and warn the Watch, or stay with her and potentially be party to crimes. "You two have become very close."

Bran shrugged. "Our travels have put us in each others path," he said, trying not to flush. "I mean, we kissed but I was interrupted by a vision and she refused to talk about it afterwards. This was after declaring affection for me. At least…..I think it was affection. Or perhaps I'm reading too much into it. I don't know."

Jon nodded his understanding at his confusion. "Matters of the heart, especially when you have a strong-willed woman involved is always hard to know and interpret how much is one-sided and how much is mutual," he said, feeling rather sage as he said that. "You do like her, right? More than just as friends?"

Bran was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He looked so much longer than now, now sixteen instead of the ten he had been when he had fallen from the Broken Tower. He had a very large nose, which seemed to continually draw Jon's attention. That and his ears. By the Gods, how could mortal man have such big ears?!

"I do," he admitted, an embarrassed grin plastering his face. "I really do, Jon. Yet like I said, I don't know what to make of what she said. It may have just been we were cold and could possibly die. I just don't know."

"Just tell her how you feel when she wakes up and gets to Winterfell," Jon said, "Or better yet, leave her a scroll. Tell her how you feel in it and if she feels the same to come down to Winterfell. Or she can go home and that will be that. You are now Prince in the Kingdom of the North. You can have any woman you wish if Meera doesn't return."

Bran thought about it for a few long seconds. "Alright," he nodded, setting a firm expression on his face. "I'll do that. We do need to get to Winterfell, as you said. I need to tell both you and Sansa the truth."

"What truth?" Jon asked.

"About your parentage," Bran said, "Father told you before you parted that he would tell you about your mother, and I will take upon myself that role since Father is no longer here. If my raven has reached Howland Reed, he should arrive in Winterfell to help validate what I tell you."

Anyone could have told Bran that Father had said that! Jon shook his head and looked back at the fire. He really couldn't understand this fascination of Bran's that he could see the past. This mad man's fancies. Seven Hells, had his brother gone delusional in the True North? Had he turned mad in his solitude, watching person after person die, them saying their deaths were to protect him?

"You know nothing Jon Snow."

Jon turned to Bran, and his eyes had suddenly turned completely white. Jon looked at him, unsure of what he should do. Then the eyes went back to normal and Jon frowned. Bran was staring up at him, a sad smile on his face. A sad smile, and a knowing look that nearly unmanned Jon at just that depth and complexity of the expression.

"That's what she kept saying to you," Bran said, "When you were lost with her in the North after you captured her. When you were heading down to the Wall to climb over it. When you were roving around the Gift with the band of Wildlings and you told her about the seven times the wildlings had failed to penetrate the Wall. She even told you in the cave, before you did that thing with your tongue that she liked."

Jon stared at him in stunned silence. He….there was no way that Bran could know that! How could he possibly have any knowledge of that stuff? Yes, Dolores Edd knew that Jon had broken his vows with a wildling woman. Yet he didn't know any of the details. Sure, he had told Sam about the feeling he had felt when he had been with Ygritte. But no one knew these details.

"As she lay dying in your arms, Ollie having just shot her in the back with a bow," Bran said sadly, "She told you, 'We should have stayed in that cave.' Oh Jon, how she must have loved you, even as she shot you with three arrows after you betrayed her and the band she was with."

Jon was stunned and he slumped into the chair. He stared at Bran, unable to process for a good long while this irrevocable proof that Bran could indeed see the past. In one second, his entire view of Bran had forever altered. No longer was he just a boy, crippled from a long fall. No, now he was…well, a wizard, as Sam would have said so.

"What else do you know?" Jon asked, now very interested in what Bran could tell him.

"I know that the Night King was one of the First Men," Bran said. "The Children of the Forest created him so they could combat the First Men, who were carrying out a genocidal war against them."

This new light shed an entire new light on the Night King. That moment when they had locked eyes as they were drawing apart. Was it a kinship that they had both felt? Was it the same kinship he had felt among the wildlings, descendants of the First Men being together forming a type of bond? Was the sensations he had felt, that subtle message, was it actually the Night King recognizing a descendant of his? Not a true, father to son line type of descendant. But a recognizing they were the same stock, even if hundreds of generations removed.

"I can also tell you Sansa was raped on her wedding night and Theon was watching in the corner," Bran said, "Theon was there against his will, but that's why she savaged Ramsey as much as she did. It wasn't just to avenge Rickon, but it was for all the sexual abuse she underwent."

Jon leaned back and put fingers on his forehead. That explained an awful lot. Sansa used to be so filled with life. Now, she was steel. Yes, she had affection, but she was far more likely to lash out than she had ever been. He had noticed that abuse victims tended to be a bit more aggressive, depending on their disposition.

"And I….." Bran started but stopped in mid-sentence. Jon looked up at Bran and found his back pinned to the back of the chair. His eyes had gone milky-white. His arms were resting against the armrest. Although resting wasn't the exact word he'd have used. Bran's fingers were clenched against the ends of the armrests, veins bulging on the back of his hands and the tension draining the color from his knuckles.

"Bran?" Jon asked, jumping to his feet. "Bran!"

He rushed the few feet to him and grabbing him, shook him slightly. Bran was unresponsive, his head tilting back and staring at the ceiling. "Bran! Maester Lexxa! Maester, we need you!"

The door to the adjoining room opened, and in stepped the maester. Lexxa was a very thin fellow, the crème colored maester robes seeming to drown his thin frame. Maester Lexxa did not take ranks into account as he didn't say a word but pushed Jon back. He bent over Bran and checked him.

"He has done this multiple times since he's shown up here in Castle Black," the maester said. He stood back up and shook his head. "These fits usually pass. Anywhere between a few seconds, to an hour once. Do not be overly concerned, Your Grace. Your brother will be fine."

"Truly?" he asked. "How can you be certain?"

The man turned to him, the thin fellow giving him a disdainful look. "Your Grace," he said with a haughty air. "I realize that for a man such as yourself who deserted the Night's Watch that it may be hard to understand. But _I_ have stuck true to my vows to be a maester all my life. When I say he is going to be fine, it's because of experience that I have gained from my long years of faithful service to _my_ lifelong vows."

With that, without waiting for Jon to respond, he turned and with a huff walked out of the room and slammed the wooden door shut behind him. How many others in the North considered him a deserter? The story of his resurrection had passed far and wide, yet Jon wouldn't be surprised if many of the lords and ladies considered him a deserter and a liar.

Yet they had still called him 'King of the North'. If they really considered him a deserter, then why would they have chosen him as their king? He was pondering this riddle for a few long moments.

With a grunt, Jon was brought back to the present and he saw Bran lean forward. His face was twisted in pain, and he put both hands to his face. His entire body was trembling from the experience of the fit.

"Are you alright?" Jon asked, truly concerned.

"For the past couple of weeks, I have been forced into visions without my consent," Bran explained, his voice small and quaking as he spoke. "I am shown things, this time relating to the Azor Ahai legend. It's true, Jon. The story of the Last Hero, of Azor Ahai. They aren't different people. They are one. I just witnessed them…..I just saw him plunge _Lightbringer_ into Nyssa Nyssa for blood magic sake. Gods, this hurts!"

They spoke no more of this for the rest of the day. Jon let his brother be as he instead walked through courtyard of Castle Black. Allowing the memories of the past to wash over him, he was left more or less alone. Dolores Edd was in a meeting with the Lord Commanders of Eastwatch and Shadow Tower. They were meeting personally to report the activities on their parts of the Wall. He walked near a well in the courtyard, and saw in his mind's eye the last minutes between him and Ygritte. However, it was nowhere as clear as Bran could seemingly see it.

He turned to look at the maester's chambers, wondering at this change.

* * *

The morning came grey and dull. Snow was falling in the courtyard. Not too badly though, and Jon watched as the Brothers of the Nights Watch rolled out a wagon for Jon, and had attached the wagon to Jon's horse. Bran was carried out by two Brothers of the Watch who carried him between them, his arms draped around their shoulders.

Jon climbed into the drivers seat of the wagon as Bran was laid in the back, and covered with blankets. The wagon had been stocked with provisions for their journey, exactly seven days worth of food. Without the need of so many people to be led, he was certain that this return trip would be a lot faster.

"So once again you abandon Castle Black?" Dolores Edd mockingly jeered as he stepped up to the wagon-side. "At this rate, I'll have to bar you from here!"

Jon shrugged with a smile. "Don't worry Edd," he rejoined, "It's too fucking cold up here to want to stay."

"If you do happen to find yourself with more men you'd like to send to the Wall," Edd said hopefully, "You could send them our way, yah? We only have about fifty fuckers in here. Not enough for what's to come?"

"If all else fails, just round up the whores of Mole's Town and put them on the Wall to help you fight," Jon grinned.

Dolores Edd feigned a shudder. "I need the boys to be fighting, not fucking," Edd said, then held up his hands, "Although with some of them, they can't tell the difference. Sword, dick, it's all the same to them."

"The principle is still the same," Jon agreed. "You stick them with the pointy end."

Edd shook his head as they both chuckled at the joke. "It's been to see you Jon," Edd said, "Or Your Grace as I should be calling you. You seem happy. That's a change."

Jon sat there, taking the comment and thinking on it. "Yes Edd," Jon said, "I am happy. More than I have been in my entire life, strangely enough. Take care Edd, and hold fast. The North is rallying behind you."

"We'll need more than the North to fight the coming darkness," Edd said, very serious.

Jon didn't say anything to that. There wasn't anything he could say to that. With a flick of the reins, the wagon pulled forward, and they left Castle Black. As the wooden southern gate closed behind them, Jon knew one thing for certain. If he saw Castle Black ever again, it would be with the Army of the Dead at the doorstep.


	19. Epi 3, Ch 2: Dany

***Dany***

Daenerys sat in the grass and she leaned back against Viserion. The green and crème colored dragon lay on the ground, sleeping. She could feel the muscles and sinew bulge and relax with every breath the dragon took and her body torso rose and fell with every breath. Drogon and Rhaegal were off flying around Dragonstone, but here Viserion slept, and she looked up at the clouds in the sky, looking at the shapes.

"Your Grace," a voice said, breaking into her reverie.

She very rarely allowed herself the luxury of just relaxing, yet now she had. She didn't like being interrupted but she wasn't so proud that she would turn a caller away. Viserion grunted in his sleep and shifted his body. The act pulled his body away from his mother…..and Daenerys landed flat on the ground with a gentle thud.

"Are you alright, Your Grace?" the caller asked with slight concern in their voice.

"Yes," she said, blinking at the disorienting view of a wall of scales that rose to cut half of her vision of the sky off. She sat up, and with a grunt pushed herself up to her feet. "Very. You have something for me?"

Varys stood before her, wearing a grey set of robes that left his legs exposed. These were covered in a similar colored breeches. His bald head, usually a source for sun light glinting off of it, seemed grey itself, the clouds Daenerys had been observing rolling to cover the entire plateau in shadow.

"I first want to tell you that your Hand has been very busy," Varys said, his arms folded in the sleeves of his robes infront of him.

"Oh?" she asked, "Doing what?"

"He is having a gift made for you from one of the good people who were living here on this island when we showed up," Varys said.

"Do you know what it is?" she asked, her affinity with surprises and gifts having become more and more less-so over the years. There was only so many times she could be given balls that were actually manticores before she became wary of them.

"Of course," Varys said, a smile on his face. "Yet I do not think our good Hand would appreciate it if I gave away what it was before he was ready to give it to you."

Daenerys tried not to roll her eyes. People who gave her gifts were usually wanting something. Not just to kill her, although that was always something. No, they were to buy her off, or to make her suffering less-so because of pretty bobbles.

"Have you had a chance to look into the matter I asked about?" Daenerys asked.

"Indeed I did, Your Grace," he bobbed his head, "My network of spies has had to take some doing in rebuilding. Qyburn, the Hand of Queen Cersei, has usurped the loyalty of my little birds, so it's taken some doing. But I am well enough entrenched again in the Seven Kingdoms that such inquiries as yours can be dealt with."

Daenerys didn't quite understand the difficulties such an endeavor would take. Yet she would trust her Master of Whispers judgment in it.

"And?" she asked.

Varys shifted uncomfortably. "The Princess Myrcella is no longer among the living, I'm afraid," he informed her.

Daenerys nodded. She really didn't care about the well-being of the Princess, a usurper heir to a throne that was _rightfully_ hers. However, she was much more interested in how this would affect Tyrion. Tyrion was a doting uncle by all she had seen of him, although the truth could always be more messy than that.

"How did she die?" Daenerys asked.

"Poisoned, by Ellaria Sand."

Shit. "Tyrion must not be told, until after the war is won," Daenerys told Varys. She turned back to Viserion, who was now waking, roaring as he yawned awake. His body uncoiled as he rose on his powerful legs and with eyes closed, the dragon reminded him of an old man, arching his back inwards and large pops of his back as the bones in this spine popped. "I can't afford Tyrion getting depressed more than he is with the death of King Tommen. Gods Varys, he seems almost _too_ depressed at times."

"As much as it pains me to keep this secret to ourselves, I completely agree," Varys said. "He acts very rashly when he learns of treachery. And if he should learn about Ellaria Sand, I could see him accidentally hurting your interests by sabotaging Dorne."

Daenerys frowned at that. What did Varys mean by that? She ran a hand over Viserion's scales. The dragon was turning his body to face Dragonstone and his eyes followed the flight of his two brothers as they gently spun around the fortress.

Movement caught her attention and she turned to see three hundred men being walked up to her. These men wore plain colored tunics and breeches, but what was interesting was the Dothraki that followed on the outer-edge of the group. Tyrion and Missandei were walking at the front of the group, and she saw the worried expressions of the group.

"As requested, Your Grace," Tyrion said, "I present to you Grenn Lochorn, Captain of the Dragonstone garrison."

The leader of the group of men was a squat shaped fellow. He had a long grey beard that passed down to mid-point of his chest. Even though his clothes were a little baggy on him, she could tell the raw muscle this older man had. A scar ran across where his eyebrows would have once been, a tale of old wounds. Even in his captivity, he showed a nobility that did indeed impress her.

"You are all in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn," Missandei was announcing the titles proudly," last of the living Targaryens, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea and the Great Khaleesar, the Breaker of Chains, the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms…."

"She's a bitch and a whore!" one of the prisoners shouted, interrupting Missandei.

The man was silenced by a hard punch to the face that would have dropped him not his comrades caught him, helping him stay up. Missandei was not used to being interrupted in her ever-so-flowery presentation of the many titles of the Queen. She glanced at Daenerys to see if she should continue. Daenerys nodded.

"Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the Andals, First Men and the Rhoynar," Missandei said, "The Mother of Dragons."

"Welcome, my lord Lochorn," Daenerys said, stepping a few feet closer, but not close enough that the Lannister soldier could attack her if this should go south.

"I'm not a lord, Your Grace," Lochorn shook his head. "I'm a common man from Flea Bottom."

"A common man to achieve any rank in Westeros is impressive," the Queen nodded her head.

"Any man who kills enough people gets rank," the older man said, shaking his head. "If anything's impressive, it's the fact that I am alive after all these years."

Daenerys could understand that sentiment. It was only because she was invulnerable to flames that she could have been alive for so long. She had risen to God status among the Dothraki because of her will and determination to live and overcome all things.

"I would be honored to have you and your men live," Daenerys told him, truly meaning it. "It is a hard thing to surrender, I'm sure. You were given trust of a place, yet you were wise enough to realize the folly of a defense. Bend the Knee, and live with the same responsibility as beforehand. You will command the garrison of Dragonstone and…."

"No."

Daenerys blinked at the sudden and outright rejection. She looked sideways at Varys and then at Tyrion. Varys had looked dubious and calculating, as if to see what her reaction would be. Tyrion looked worried.

"Forgive me?" she asked politely.

"I will not bend my knee to no Queen who allows the Dothraki savages onto our shores," he said defiantly, placing his curled fists on either side of his stout frame. "I will not bend my knee to a woman whose army of cockless bastards has killed many infants to prove they are worthy to be soldiers. I have three grandchildren that I raised all by myself, Your Grace. Girls, lovely lasses all of them. Yet you want me to bend my knee when you literally brought a hundred thousand fuckers that would love nothing more than ravage them? No, I would deserve the fires of all Seven Hells if I did such a thing."

"The Queen has the Dothraki in check and they will not rape as long as she commands it," Tyrion argued, "She is a gentlehearted person."

"Forgive me, my Lord Tyrion," Lochorn inclined his head, "I am sure she means well. Well for whom though? Herself? Perhaps she has told the Dothraki horde that they are not to rape, but a hundred thousand horny men are not likely to all obey her commands. If these men behind me should bend the knee, that may be all well and good. Yet I refuse to."

Daenerys looked at the group of prisoners, and didn't like what she was seeing. His defiant words were giving them stiffened spines. Each of them looked more and more resolute as the captain they looked upon for inspiration and direction was refusing the offer of the Queen.

"You have all seen my power," Daenerys called out to them. She reached to the bottom of her lungs and projected her words over the group. "You have seen my dragons. I will take back the Seven Kingdoms, and you can either live, or you will die. Any person who bends the knee will be allowed to live. Anyone who doesn't, will be put to death. The choice is yours, and there will be no second chances."

A few men immediately bent the knee. One man was going down when his comrade grabbed him, shaking his head, and stood back up. Maybe ten at most had bent the knee that she could see. Granted, the plateau did slope so she couldn't see everyone.

"Viserion," she said, turning to her dragon.

The dragon bent his head and bellowed a hearty roar at the men. That sent a larger group to their knees. A few were beginning to doubt the wisdom of defiance, but still more than half of the men refused to bend the knee.

With a sigh, she barked a command in Dothraki. Lochorn and six others were chosen from the group and they were led to a point off to the left of the group.

"What are you doing, Your Grace?" Tyrion asked, waddling up to her on his short legs.

"I told them if they did not bend the knee, they would die," Daenerys said, looking down on her Hand. "What would I be if I did not carry out my threat?"

"You will not win heart this way," he argued. "Keep them in the cells! Anything, just….just not this! This is what your father would do, kill anyone who disagreed."

"I'm not my father because I'm not killing those who disagree with me," Daenerys retorted, "Otherwise you would not be standing there. No, I am only killing those who would continue to be my enemies."

"Your Grace, I gave them my word they would not be harmed!" Tyrion said. "Send them to the Wall! The Watch needs men."

"Do not worry Half-man," Lochorn shouted to him. "I remember you leading the defense of King's Landing and the charge you lead us against Stannis. And even if only for a short time, I am glad to have seen you again before the end."

Daenerys flicked up a hand, cutting Tyrion off before he could say more. "I, Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, do hereby sentence you to death." She turned a cool eye to Viserion. "Dracarys."

Viserion let loose a blast of flame that engulfed the six men. The men screamed in pain and she was temporarily blinded by the sheering light she had seen of the flames. Then, one by one the men dropped, and the gentle breeze blew away at least two of them in a cloud of ash. She looked down at the flash burned men and marveled at just how much fiercer her dragon's fire had become.

"You now have seen what becomes of those who defy me," Daenerys said to the prisoners, one of them fainting at the grisly sight. "Bend the Knee and be saved this fate. Do not, and dragon fire will take you."

About a hundred men bent the knee right then and a few others dropped as they realized the futility of resistance, but still a hundred seemed to stand firm. She was rather surprised by this defiance. Had they not seen what had happened to those others? Were they really going to risk death just to defy her?

"Grab another ten," she commanded in Dothraki and with brutal efficiency another ten were rounded up and pushed forward to where their comrades had perished.

"No!" Tyrion shouted, turning to his Queen. "Please, you've made your point! There is no more need for this! Send them to the Wall! The Night's Watch could use them, and their vows would never allow them to marry or have children. It'd be a punishment of forever freezing."

"They should rejoice," Daenerys said, watching the men hoping as they were marched into the scorched area. "The priests of R'hllor say death by fire is the purist death. Dracarys."

Again, Viserion belched forth flame and the ten men were caught in the blast. They staggered around, screaming as they were cooked alive. One man in his frenzied delirium of pain, ran for the cliff, fire trailing behind him. He vaulted himself over the side, screaming in his pain and he looked like a falling star as he fell.

Daenerys found as she watched these beings burn, there was a strange sensation filling her. A hunger to see more. It was alighting the fires of her sexuality and she found herself craving sexual contact. The sight of the flames stoked the fire of her imagination and she could see visions of the world burning and herself standing on the ruins, laughing in victory at the despair around her.

 _Gods!_ She mentally shook herself. _What am I doing? Why am I being aroused by this? This is horrific death, and it's something I don't want. I want to be loved, not feared._

"Bend the knee," she said, turning to see the rest of the men drop to one knee without any further hesitation. Twelve men stood in place, although fear was in their eyes. It was admirable, they had stood for so long.

"Don't," Tyrion moaned. "Please, don't!"

She was going to summon them forward, yet something stayed her. She looked down at Tyrion and looked back at the men. This was her father's way, not hers. Dragonfire couldn't be the answer to everything.

"I have decided to be merciful," she announced. "You twelve will at once be sent to the Wall to take the black."

With that, she dismissed everyone, including Tyrion and Varys. Tyrion's face was pale and he was shaken very badly. Varys was staring at her, an unreadable expression on his face. Yet soon, she was alone except for Viserion. Even then, Viserion was stretching his wings to take flight to join his brothers in the sky. As he took off, the powerful gales that his wings causing her hair to blow around her along with her black dress.

She was alone, and her eyes were drawn to the still smoldering patches of grass. They drew her towards them inexorably and she took a slow step towards it. Step by step she took until she was standing in the smoldering embers of the grass, the ashes of the dead under her feet. And she stood there, the warmth of the scorched earth smothering her in a pleasure she had never felt before with any man.

 _What is happening to me?_ She wondered.


	20. Epi 3, Ch 3: Cersei

***Cersei***

Rain fell across King's Landing, heavy sheets of the falling water causing people to hide indoors. The rain had started the other night and while the majority of the city had a few inches of standing water, which was a blessing to Flea Bottom (it would clean out the shit that accumulated down there) the Red Keep was actually seeing a lesser part of the rain fall. The rain started to slacken the closer it got to the water front, which was almost right by the Red Keep.

As rain drops tap-tap-taped on the map floor outside her office, Cersei drummed her own fingertips as she waited for her next guest. She had seen a parade of guests today, delivering either good news or not so good news, depending on the person.

The door to her office opened, and in strolled Magen Lannister. His short-cropped hair was brushed to a nice part down the middle, and he had shaven it appeared earlier that day. Her third cousin inclined his head and he stepped up to the desk.

"Your Grace," he said, a far fairer spoken man than many sailors she had known. "You summoned me?"

"Yes," she nodded, motioning he take a seat. Magen took one of the chairs and slid into it with ease. He glanced around the office as he sat, taking in all the sights and items there. All the sights and items that were hers. "How are your men?"

"Eager," he said with a determined nod. "We are just waiting for a new ship. The _Tywin_ is supposed to be finished the next few weeks. Meanwhile, the boys are enjoying the brothels in this fair city, Your Grace."

"They will enjoy the new ship far better than you will, dear cousin Magen," Cersei said, her eyes boring into the fellow on the other side.

"Well, my First Mate has been a sailor a lot longer than I have," he shrugged, "As for the maester, Gail usually takes a few days to get reused to the rolling of the sea. He'll be spending the first two days taking his own medicine to stay well! The few others…..well, they just need the right crew. As for myself, I am sure that it will make up for the _Debt Paid._ "

Cersei listened to the words leaving his mouth, the edges of her lips curling in disdain. Her cousin was one of the biggest fools she had ever had the misfortune of entrusting the safety of the Realm.

"You misunderstand me, dear Magen," she replied, lacing her hands together and settling them against her stomach. "You will not enjoy it. At all."

Magen frowned and cocked his head to the side. "Your Grace?" he asked, clearly not understanding her meaning.

"What was the task I assigned you to when Mace Tyrell named you Lord Commander of the Lannister fleet?" she asked.

"To stop Daenerys Targaryens fleet," Magen replied.

"Something you failed spectacularly at," Cersei said, her voice taking on an icy chill. "You charged recklessly at the enemy fleet…."

"There were dragons bathing our ships in fire!" he protested, "We couldn't stay there….."

"Then you failed to sink a _single_ enemy ship, even though you had the ships and the supposed skills to do so," Cersei continued to talk over him as if he hadn't been speaking.

"There were too many ships and they were far larger than our own," Magen argued, his voice taking on a desperate edge as he tried to make his Queen see reason.

" _Not only that_ ," she added heat to her words, "You managed to lose _every_ single one of our ships, minus the one protecting Dragonstone. And the two others doing Gods knows what. I am not Lord Commander of the ships so I wouldn't have a clue of their tasks."

"They literally outnumbered us roughly three hundred to one!" Magen's disbelief in his voice was palpable. "They literally plowed through our ships as if they weren't anything. You can't….."

"I hereby discharge you from service in the fleets of Casterly Rock and you are barred from holding any command in any region of the Seven Kingdoms for your failure in doing the most simple of tasks," Cersei interrupted him a powerful invocation.

Magen sat there, stunned as if his memory had been jogged by a brute squads giant. His mouth was open, and he seemed unable to speak. Cersei lifted an eyebrow and pointedly looked at the door. Yet Magen slumped into his chair, as if he had lost all sensation in his body.

"You are dismissed, cousin," she said in a combination of disdain and dismissiveness.

Magen sat for a long moment. Then, he slowly pushed himself up and walked towards the door. His hand gripped the latch on the door. He hesitated for a second, and Cersei thought he was going to look back. But no, he pulled down on the latch and opening the door, stepped out.

After him walked in Ser Arys Oakheart walked into the room. He looked behind him through the door, frowning in concern. He must have seen Magen Lannister, ex-Lord Commander of the Lannister Fleets. At least, she believed that was the title Magen had held. She had never quite gotten which titles belonged to which military type.

Ser Arys turned to face the Queen and inclined his head. "Your Grace," he addressed her, "You summoned me?"

Cersei motioned him to the chair that had just been vacated by her third cousin. Gods! She had enough cousins she was sure one of the Seven Hells was strictly filled with Lannister cousins. Ser Arys took the seat, setting his helmet, which he had been carrying in the crux of his arm, on his lap.

"I did, Ser Arys," she said. "How long have you served the Realm in the capacity of Kingsguard?"

"290 AC, Your Grace," he said. AC referred to "After Conquest" which was how the Realm counted their years now.

"So you have been with the Guard for fourteen years," she said, "You were appointed by my husband. How have you found these years of service?"

"Intense, my Queen," he admitted.

"How so?"

"Well, the War of the Five Kings for starters," he said, counting off on his fingers. "The Destruction of the Great Sept. This new invasion by Daenerys Targaryen. The list goes on, Your Grace."

"Indeed, it does," Cersei nodded. Yes, these years had been a shit show. "I was wondering if you would tell me something. What in your opinion is the single most important responsibility of the Kingsguard?"

"Keeping the King alive," Arys responded confidently.

 _Yes,_ Cersei thought. _That is the most important responsibility for your position._

"A job you seem to be failing at spectacularly, Ser Arys," Cersei said, bringing Arys to a full stop.

Arys frowned. "I don't follow you, Your Grace," he said, leaning forward towards her, "How have I failed in my duties?"

"During your time in the Kingsguard, three kings have died, as have several of their family members," she said stating the matter simply as if she was discussing the state of her washing. Not that she ever did washing herself, no. She wouldn't even bathe herself, not when she could have a servant do it for her. It had an arousing sensation for other women to feel her magnificent breasts as she sat in the tub, and to see the envious looks in their eyes as they realized that she had a more magnificent set then they ever could.

Arys was frowning. "That isn't any of my fault, Your Grace," he argued. "King Robert didn't have any Kingsguard with him when he was gored by the boar. King Joffrey had me in the Red Keep to make sure no one sat on his throne when he was poisoned. As for King Tommen, no one can stop a man from committing suicide."

"Indeed?" she raised a scornful eyebrow. "And what of Myrcella? You were charged with her protection, and yet she got poisoned right underneath your nose, and you did nothing to prevent those bitches in Dorne from doing that."

Ser Arys straightened his back, becoming very defensive. His eyes were hardening and his voice was taking a more defiant stance. There it was! The thing she had been hoping he would do. Show his guilt by trying to act righteous. The little shit thought he wasn't responsible for everything that goes on with his charges.

"I'm not a taste-tester, Your Grace," he said in as polite a tone as he could muster.

"Yet she is dead," Cersei replied coldly. "You should have stopped it. But _noooo_. You were fucking your Dornish whore."

"I was doing no such thing," Arys shook his head. Cersei was trying to get him to lose his cool. The cracks were beginning to form. All she had to do was push a little more.

Cersei held up an accusing finger and pointed it at him, "What kind of Kingsguard allows four members of the Royal Family to die and for their grandfather as well?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know," Arys said, his nostrils flaring. "If you hadn't been fucking the Realm and your brother over as much as possible, we wouldn't be in such a shit show, now would we, Your Grace. Who was the one charged with protecting Tommen? Not I, but your pet giant, the Mountain. If anyone should be brought to task, it's you for a failure of judgement of worth, Your Grace."

Cersei's moment of triumph was shattered as he called out the fact she had let Tommen die. No, she hadn't, but the Mountain's orders had been clear. "Keep an eye on Tommen until the explosion happens." He had followed her orders to the letter and left immediately after the explosion had happened, so he wasn't able to stop Tommen's rash actions.

"It is glad thing to hear a bit of honesty from you before you are dismissed from the Kingsguard," Cersei said.

"You can't do that!" Arys objected, "The Kingsguard is for life!"

"You must have not been paying attention then for the last few years," she said with a cruel smile. "Because we've dismissed two Lord Commanders during this time. And you thought you'd be safe?"

Arys sat there, steaming in anger. He stood up, the chair clattering to the floor from the motion. He threw the helmet on the floor, the metallic dome ringing as it bounced. Reaching up, his eyes filled with anger and rage at Cersei, he grabbed the clasps that held his cloak, and unlatched it. He pulled the pure white cloak off his shoulders, and threw it on the floor.

Without waiting for Cersei to formally dismiss him, he turned and stormed out, throwing the door open as he left the room. Cersei was alone for a few moments, savoring the sensation of having made two proud men lose everything they had thought of themselves. Magen's entire identity was wrapped up in his ships. Arys Oakheart was a man who had judged his worth by being in the Kingsguard.

"Your Grace?" a voice asked and she looked up to see Ser Preston Greenfield enter the chambers of her office.

"Ser Preston," she inclined her head. "Would you take a seat please?"

"Of course," he inclined his head and looked down at the floor. At the discarded helmet and the white cloak. He picked up the cloak as he grabbed the toppled chair and sat it as it should be. "May I ask what happened to Ser Arys? He was in a fury to be sure."

Ser Preston was a weirdly shaped fellow. With a thick neck, square head, cheekbones that protruded from his face and two weirdly shaped ears, he wasn't exactly the image of gallantry one thought of as a young girl thinking about what knights should look like.

Yet she knew Ser Arys. He actually was one of the most sexually active of the Kingsguard. His woman of choice was a rather healthy-looking wife of a draper. While the seller of cloth was doing his business, his wife was doing a whole other type of business servicing a member of the Kingsguard. Truth be told, Cersei had seen the woman once and she was certain that her son was Ser Preston's.

"He has been dismissed for the death of the Princess Myrcella," Cersei informed him.

Preston grimaced at the knowledge. He and Myrcella had gotten along just fine. Myrcella had called him 'Uncle Preston' and had actually begged for Preston to come along to Dorne as well. He had been tearful as he had told her he couldn't.

"That was a sad business," Preston admitted, "Although she wasn't a Queen or King, and many members remain in the Kingsguard. Even Jaime, whom killed King Arys the Second remained as Kingsguard to your husband."

"I need to show the Realm that failure cannot be tolerated anymore," she said simply. "I need to show the Realm that I am not my husband or my sons."

Ser Preston gave a smile. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but anyone with eyes can definitely tell you are not King Robert or any of your children," he said.

Ser Preston had always been a bit more carefree with his words when it came towards women. How many times had he made suggestive comments to Cersei or made innuendos when she was around? She had actually enjoyed seeing Jaime's reaction to the comments. His jealousy. He was currently cold to her, but if she kept forcing him to bed as she had done several times over the past couple of weeks, he'd return to her.

"You missed your calling in life, Ser Preston," she said with a smile, setting her hands on the table. "You should be serenading women, both young, old, fair and ugly. Yet here you are, stuck in the Kingsguard, which doesn't allow such activities."

Ser Preston shrugged. "I still have eyes, Your Grace," he flashed his smile, a misaligned toothy grin. Yet he turned more serious as he said, "But in truth, Your Grace, I am honored to be a part of this illustrious group."

Cersei smiled politely and nodded. "If it is such an honor," she said, "Why have you broken your vows, again and again?"

Ser Prestons' smile froze in place, and his eyebrows squinted in humor that wasn't sure if it was supposed to be humorous or concerned. She watched him squirm in his seat as he seemed to do a double take.

"I am not sure I know of what you are meaning, Your Grace," he said.

"Do you not?" Cersei asked sarcastically, "You were with the draper's wife the day my husband was killed by the boar. And you were also with her the day Tommen threw himself from the window. I also believe you were with her the night my father, the Lord Tywin was murdered by my traitorous brother."

Ser Preston tried to speak but all he that came out of his mouth was strained sounds. He had been taken so off-guard that his usually witty personality couldn't catchup with what was going on at that moment.

"I hereby dismiss you from service in the Kingsguard," she said, and when he sat, his features frozen in shock. "Do not be disheartened, Ser Preston. Now, you can be with the woman of your heart openly!"

Slowly, Ser Preston arose as she shooed him off with her hand. His look of shock carried him out of the door. Cersei had taken a great amount of joy at seeing such a witty man be halted in his efforts. Yet she didn't have too long to revel in that moment.

Entering the chamber shortly after Ser Preston Greenfield had left, was a man of proud bearings. He had a beard and mustache that circled his mouth but didn't connect with his sideburns. He had thick black hair and he bowed to the Queen. He seemed to be the exact opposite of Ser Preston when it came to being a member of the Kingsguard.

"Your Grace," Ser Osmund Kettleblack inclined his head. "You summoned me?"

"Yes, Ser Osmund," she motioned for him to take a seat.

She was going to enjoy reliving this man from his position as well. For what cause? Seducing the Queen and treating kindly with the enemies of the Crown. No, it had been her idea for the sex and Sansa Stark had not been a traitor. But that wasn't about to stop Cersei from treating this man the same way as the others.


	21. Epi 3, Ch 4: Olenna Tyrell

***Olenna Tyrell***

There was a heavy mist of post-rain as Olenna Tyrell arrived back at Highgarden. The castle rose high above the plains, breaking through the mists to shine like a beacon to all. It rose in three levels, the first level of many bulwarks and the parapets were carved out of the greatest of care so the battlements would be hard to shoot the defenders through.

The second level was made similarly, except that instead of regular battlements where stone parapets rose to either side of the sections for the defenders, the defenses were cut to resemble flowers through which the archers would be concealed except to the most lucky and impossible of shots. The last level was fashioned as a giant greenhouse. It was up there that the Lords of Highgarden had the audience chambers, private chambers and the library. During even the chill of winter they would remain nice and warm.

"Hurry up, you silly pot!" Olenna shouted, banging the top of the carriage with a sturdy walking cane she had taken with her to Dragonstone. "If you don't move, I'll die of old age in this crate."

"Going as fast as safety permits, mi'lady," the driver shouted back. "There is a nice amount of mud on the road and if we go to fast, we might slip off the road!"

"I don't give two shits about your excuses," she cursed the driver, faceless and accursed and she named him. "All I expect of you is to do as your told."

The driver cursed the Seven Heavens for having such an ornery passenger but urged the horses at a greater speed. Olenna smiled smugly. She had learned in life that all you needed to do was act more stubborn than those around you, and they would bow to your will. If she had been born with a cock instead of a cunt, she could have been the ruler on the Iron Throne and she would have done a whole hell of a lot better than the Lannister tart had done so. Olenna expected that Cercei actually had a unibrow that she kept nicely plucked.

Soon they were passing through the gate into Highgarden. The wheels clattered as they rode over the cobblestone and the carriage came to a halt. The door was opened for her and a servant held out a hand to help her down. She accepted the hand of the man.

"Your hand is as soft as a woman's," she reproached him, staring at him with a remonstrate glance. "You should go and actually do actual work instead of wasting our copper pennies on you!"

"Grandmother!" Garlan called to her stepping up to her. "It is a pleasure to see you having arrived safely."

"Ah, my idiot grandson," Olenna rolled her eyes. "I expected to see your brother down here. Where is that crippled fool, Willas?"

Garlan tried not to let his annoyance at his grandmother show, and he managed to almost completely hide it. Decades of practice led to his ability to do a remarkable job at it. She would have been impressed, but Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thrones, had a well-earned reputation of _not_ being impressed by anything or anyone.

Except Tywin Lannister of course. That man lived up to his reputation in all things. That was a very hard thing to do. And she liked it.

"His leg is acting up badly today," Garlan said, holding out his arm to which Olenna took. He began leading her through the long way up to the third level.

"More like he is playing with his silly harp and can't be bothered to come down to see his old grandmother," she said with a derisive snort. "Back in my day, we were expected to see our grandparents, no matter what condition we are in. I remember…."

"Your days was like a century ago," Garlan said in a tartness that did the old lady's heart proud. "I think the dragons were still around back then. I wouldn't be surprised if you were hatched from a dragon egg."

Olenna raised an imperious eyebrow to her tall grandchild. "If you would live to see as long as I have, you would do well to follow my example," she shook a free finger at him.

Up through the castle of Highgarden they walked, past all manner of preparations for war. Men were fletching arrows with duck and swan feather. Smiths were clanging away, creating and fixing swords. Breastplates were being piled off to the side, and chainmail was being linked by expertly craftsman. Shields were being fashioned with the yellow rose of Highgarden being painted on by painters who were splattered in their own paint.

What seemed forever passed before they reached the greenhouse upper level, and Lady Olenna breathed a sigh of relief as the warmth swept over her, sinking down to her old lady bones. Her feet were hurting by then and she gratefully took the cushioned chair next to a fireplace. Willas was sitting next to the fire himself, and he _did_ look in an extra degree of pain.

Several other lords were in the room. Randall Tarly, well-likable but old Mathis Rowan, young and dashing Alekyne Florent and thick lumpy nosed, copper haired Orton Merryweather.

"Lady Olenna," Lord Orton Merryweather said, inclining his head. His voice was very nasally, so it always made his words sound very whiny. "How found you the Dragon Queen?"

"She's a far sight better than Cersei, I will tell you that much, my stuffy-voiced one," Olenna replied, resting into the chair. "How comes our preparations for war? We are expected to meet up with the Dornish Army at the mouth of the Prince's Pass. How many men do we plan on putting in the field?"

"We plan on putting fifty thousand men in the field," Garlan explained to her. We'd put more in the field, but we lost a lot of good men in the war. The remaining nine thousand of our men will stay here and defend the Reach from any counter-assault."

"Good," Lady Olenna nodded her head. "Between us and the Dornish army, we'll be more than capable of reaching a hundred thousand men. This war will go by quickly, I should think. Throw in that young woman's dragons and Dothraki, we'll be able to set the entire lands ablaze in our wrath to avenge your late Lord Mace and his two children."

Willas scowled at her. "There are two children still left of the House Tyrell," he reminded her, "And I am Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the Reach."

"Yes, yes," Olenna rolled her eyes. "Now you can put on big boy breeches, but it doesn't mean you have the smarts to do better than I can. So you best shut up and listen to me as I plan our glorious future. You may even learn a thing or two."

Willas rolled his eyes and looked into the fire. Olenna smiled a smug smile of victory. She had true power of personality and she could easily dominate anyone in a political or personal arena. It was rather satisfying to be known to the world as 'the Queen of Thorns' because she was always able to give people a prick in the balls at any given moment.

In her mind's eye, the armies of Casterly Rock would shatter before their combined onslaught and flee back to the Rock from whence they crawled out of. They would march on King's Landing and after a short and bitter struggle, would gain the city. Then they would ransack it and she would dearly love to see what her soldiers would do to Cersei before Daenerys Targaryen got her claws on the bitch and delivered a fiery death.

"We should be moving out in the next three days, Grandmother," Garlan informed her. "Lord Cuy's men will arrive around then, and then we can start the march to that pass. I will of course be going with them."

"Good," Lady Olenna said, "It would be best to have one of the family help exact vengeance on the enemies of the House."

Her throat was dry from her long trip and she turned to the door where the servants were standing at the ready. "Servant! Servant!" she bellowed as loud as her lungs and advanced age would allow, "Bring me some Dornish red! I'm as dry as a Dornish spring over here! You would not let me die in thirst now, would you?"

"We received a raven today," Randall said, "We all received the same raven."

"Impossible," Willas declared. "A single raven can't carry scroll to every single one of you. It would be impossible. Now, swallows on the other hand can carry coconuts by the husks between two of them."

Olenna rolled her eyes. Willas Tyrell was obsessed with Maester Monty Python's scrolls. Especially the one about a King of the Iron Islands who goes on a Quest for a Holy Chalice of the Drowned God. He was forever reciting lines from the scroll. What was the other one he liked to say? 'I make wind your general direction!' or was it 'Nee! Nee! Nee!' that he liked more?

Garlan was snorting in laughter. They were boys, no matter their age. They also loved the scrolls involving the Three Pranksters: Larry, Moe and Curly. She couldn't see the appeal in either of them.

"So, what makes this scroll oh so important?" Olenna asked.

"According to the scroll, Daenerys Targaryen burned alive almost twenty defenseless prisoners on Dragonstone," Randall said.

Olenna waved her hand dismissively. A goblet full of wine was handed to her and she drank it, smelling the sweet aromas of the Dornish red. It warmed her insides just as well as the fire did her outside. It was hard to stay warm at her age. It was a losing battle if there ever was one.

"She's a dragon," she reminded them all, "And those men, if they did indeed burn, were enemies of the Reach. They deserved a death worthy of a dragon."

"Are we sure that she won't do that to any of us?" Lord Rowan asked, running a hand through his wintery hair. "Her father was also obsessed with fire and burning people."

Olenna looked incredulously at the man. "I remember the Mad King as well as you do, if not better, Lord Rowan," she replied. "We are already pledged to fight with the Targaryen girl, but believe me when I say, she is _not_ her father. Even you aren't old enough to be able to tell the difference between woman's tits and a man's nipples."

The Lords did not look reassured and looked back and forth at each other. She didn't care one way or the other. She was leading the Reach in all but name. Cry all they want about the unfairness of life, if they hadn't manned up during puberty, she didn't know what to tell them.

"But these men had already surrendered!" Lord Florent exclaimed, the first time he had spoken during their little meeting. "She murdered men after they had yielded to her."

"Exactly!" Merryweather exclaimed, "We of the Reach pride ourselves in the strictest adherence to the rules of the tourney and chivalry. Why would she do something like that?"

"Can we really expect her to understand that when she spent her life among the cockless and rapists Dothraki?" Olenna demanded. "Just be grateful she hasn't flown over to King's Landing and torched the place. That little imp of a man Tyrion Lannister talked him out of it. Although I was all for it. An eye for eye, that's what I say!"

The other lords did not look too happy at that. Even Willas and Garlan seemed to squirm at that. Good Gods! Were these men or rabbits? She couldn't tell the difference at times.

"If you need reassurance," Olenna said with a grunt, "If you do nothing to offend her, she won't come to burn you."

"It's too late for that," Randall Tarly said and his hand moved quickly. Before Olenna knew it, Willas was gagging in his seat, clutching at the dagger that was driven into his windpipe. Blood flooded down the front of his yellow tunic, staining it dark red.

Garlan's hand was stayed for a few seconds, hesitating in his surprise. His mind did not seem to process the betrayal. Nor did it catch up with Olenna's mind. Young Alekyne Florent leaped forward, drawing his sword as he rushed forward. Garlan stumbled back, his hand gripping his own blade. He had barely pulled it slightly out of the sheath before Olenna heard the sound of blade slicing through flesh.

She turned in her seat to see Garlan crumpled to his knees, his chest sliced open and blood pouring down his front in great torrents. Before he could say anything or do anything, Florent's sword plunged deep into his heart. Olenna looked wildly around for the guards and the two in the room did not move, but looked with grim satisfaction at what was transpiring.

"Big men, all of you!" she accused them, standing to her feet and waving a finger at them. Randall and Merryweather had drawn their own swords and were approaching her. "Murdering my grandchildren without giving them an opportunity to fight back! How could you betray us?"

"House Tyrell has long enough stood on the sideline as a lesser house took their place as Wardens of the Reach," Randall informed her. "I once stood beside a Targaryen and nearly lost everything. No, Lady Olenna, no longer."

"So," Olenna snarled as Randall stepped up to her, the blade flickering in the light of the fireplace. "You betray me for ambitions sake. I always knew you were all balls and no brains, Lord Tarly. So what, you become Lord of the Reach if you betray us?"

"You betrayed the Seven Kingdoms by allying with a woman brining a hundred thousand rapists to our shores," he retorted. "We all have daughters that we refuse to allow them to touch. We refuse to allow a Targaryen dynasty that burns already surrendered men alive. If I benefit from it, that is only a minor boon for the greater service of stopping the filth from coming back on our shores."

"What shall be my end then, traitor?" she demanded, "Poison in my goblet? I'll let you know, you spineless bastard, that my crippled grandson was more of a man than your stunted honor could ever have allowed you to be. Such a petty, little man."

"Nothing like that," he said, and whipping his sword high, plunged it deep into her chest. The force of the blow threw her back in her chair, and she heard the sword break through the back of the chair. Further and further he plunged the sword, his grizzled face coming closer and closer to hers.

She gasped for air, the room growing darker. Her hearing was beginning to buzz in her ears, but she could clearly hear the words, "Do not worry, we will meet the Dornish army at the Prince's Pass. They might not like the reception we give them though. Oh, and your precious hordes of wealth? It's going to the Queen. She will pay off the debt to the realm. So, know this, Lady Olenna, I betray you but with this action buy us a better future for the Realm with your death."

Olenna had still been clutching the goblet when she had been stabbed into the chair. Then, the goblet fell to the ground.

 _To be continued in **Episode 4: A Game I like to Play**_

* * *

 _ **Episode Notes:**_

 _ **-This was obviously a very short episode compared to last weeks. But, all major things I wanted to do were done. This helps keep me from getting burned out with GOT.**_

 _ **-The numbers of soldiers in the book is far larger than in the show. Casterly Rock fielded 60,000 men at the beginning of the War of Five Kings. The show portrays that the armies of the Seven Kingdoms has more or less been shattered by continuous war, however, that's really not the case (except the fact the show uses far smaller armies).**_

 _ **-Who doesn't like Monty Python and Three Stooges references?**_

 _ **-Daenerys has an obsession with burning people and things, and I really wanted to showcase just what is the reason she's so obsessed with burning people and things. Her father would get aroused when he would burn people and torture them, and he would use it as a sexual stimulant for himself. So I very much see this being the reason why she seems to want to burn everything. Also, I believe that too many female characters are being portrayed as flawless in television and movies. Instead of them being portrayed as strictly air-headed bimbos meant to be eye-candy, they're being portrayed as the exact opposite, people that can outfight, out-think and have no shortcomings. That doesn't make for an interesting character.**_

 _ **-Cersei dismisses Ser Osmund Kettleblack for sexual encounters with her and for treason by treating with her enemies kindly (namely Sansa Stark). In the books, after Tyrion learns Tysha, his first wife, wasn't actually a whore but a victim of Tywin's rage when he learned Tyrion had married a commoner, he tells Jaime that Cersei has been having sex with Lancel, Osmund Kettleblack "and Moonboy for all I know!" So I just bumped it up to actually happening.**_

 _ **Now for the treating kindly with Sansa Stark. In the books, Sansa doesn't want to go to her wedding with Tyrion, and while Meryn Trant promises violence if she doesn't obey, Ser Osmund speaks to her kindly and convinces her to go to the wedding. So basiclaly, because he's nice to Sansa, he's being given the pink slip.**_

 _ **-While book-Jon is far more accepting and believing of the old tales then show-Jon is. Show-Jon is a very skeptical person. He doesn't believe that one wildling has warging abilities until he actually sees that the guy was correct. He doesn't believe in giants until he sees them. White Walkers, he doesn't really believe in them until he sees one taking a child at Craster's Keep. Jon is a sane person in this universe, so the idea of these ancient legends being real is something you dismiss, until really faced with it. The idea of seeing stuff in the past? He's seen people like Melisandre get these visions wrong or changing the interpretation to fit any circumstance. So it is possible for him to be more skeptical about Bran saying, "I can see the past." Once he sees a thing, he's totally on-board with it, minus his resurrection.**_

 _ **While keeping Book-Jon's smarts (actually getting castles along the wall up and running and not running off on wild adventures) I also keep show-Jon's scepticness and at times sheer thickness of skull. Makes for a nice balance between show and book Jon in my mind.**_


	22. Epi 4: A Game I Like to Play, Ch 1:Sansa

**Episode 4: A Game I Like to Play**

 ***Sansa***

The swords clashed below, sounding out like bells in the courtyard. Brienne slowly circled Podrick, who was turning in a slow circle to face her. The 'Big Woman' as Tormund had called her looked for any lapses in Podrick's defense, and Podrick looked for any indication of where she would strike next. Then, like a snake Brienne lashed forward, her strokes coming fast and hard. From upper left, upper right, lower left, straight from the side. Then, she was behind Podrick and her blade swept low and upwards, sweeping the young man off his legs and onto the ground with a thump that could be heard from all corners of the courtyard.

"Next time," Brienne said, her voice stern but not completely unkind. "Move fast. The faster you move, the faster you can react and predict my next attack."

Podrick grunted an acknowledgement as he took Brienne's hand and she pulled him to his feet. They resumed their stances and Brienne held her sword down to the side of her in an easy one-handed grip while Podrick held his in both hands, the blade pointed towards her. Brienne didn't wait as long to attack Podrick but Podrick move at the same time. He swept his blade at her chest and Brienne ducked. Not all that easy being as tall as she was; Podrick was a little smaller than she was. Yet even as she ducked she spun and her blade went for Podrick's butt. He twisted around, catching the blade in a lock and the two battled with brute strength to see whom would master the other.

Sansa watched from the balcony above, people moving along the balcony as they moved to carry out duties within the castle. A captain of archers was carrying several full quivers in his hands and arms, with several bows slung over his shoulder and back. Yet Sansa did not care so much about them, as she was always fascinated watching her large protector of a woman at work.

Brienne pushed forward right as Podrick kicked her in the stomach. Brienne clutched her gut, not so much in pain but at surprise at the dirty move. Brienne growled and pushed even harder. The squire then unlocked the blades and curved to the right. With the strain of resistance suddenly gone, Brienne staggered forward and nearly fell. Then Podrick's blade was at the blade of her neck.

"Very good," she said, clouds of steam rising from her lips each time her lips moved. She lifted her fingers and pushed the blade away from her neck. "Although, I'm not sure I approve of the dirty tactics Podrick."

"Ser Bronn told me to use anything at my disposal to overcome a stronger enemy," the young man explained. "If anyone is stronger, it's you, mi'lady."

Sansa smiled in amusement as she could imagine the eyeballs rolling in Lady Brienne's eyescockets. She actually didn't know why Brienne had such a problem being referred to as a lady. She was no maester, but Sansa was pretty sure she was just as equally equipped as Sansa was in that regard.

"What do you think of young Podrick's progress?" a very accented voice asked from her side.

Sansa shrugged. "He seems to be improving at a slow rate," she commented, "Yet he bested Brienne. Although I wonder if he would have in a fair fight."

"Not all of us are born capable of fighting off bigger people with swords," Petyr Baelish said, his voice wistful. "I learned that the hard way with your uncle, Brandon."

Ever since Jon had left to collect Bran, Littlefinger had been hanging out a little more time with Sansa each day. Sansa at first hadn't realized, yet now, he was spending most of his time with Sansa. She knew his end goals for the two of them. He to be on the Iron Throne, with her as the Queen. Inwardly she knew he was not the most trustworthy of individuals, yet he had always been there to rescue her when needed.

Except for the Boltons. She still wasn't quite ready to forgive that. Yet the sting of that betrayal was slowly dulling into something manageable.

"Winter is getting really harsh," Sansa said after a moment, pushing back from the balcony and walking along the walkway. "Some of the old folk are saying it's already harsher than any other winter at the same time they experienced."

"I was recuperating back at home in the Fingers from the duel I had with your uncle during the last winter," he informed her. "The snows did not go so south, yet I remember being told that the winter was rather mild. I don't know though, as this is my first winter in a region that gets a lot of snow. So, in this case I am in the dark as to the norms of this season in this area."

Sansa rubbed her hands together, her skin chilled by the frosty air. Winterfell was built over several geothermal hotspots, which allowed the inside chambers to be warmed from beneath. Her father had told her as a child that it was a reason Bran the Builder chose this spot to build Winterfell. She now heartily agreed with her ancestor's decision.

"I really wish Jon was here," she said wistfully. "We need to talk about our food situation."

"Situation?" her companion asked.

"Our food stores were quite depleted by the Boltons while they were here and much was burned by Theon and the Ironborn," she explained. "I was informed earlier today that we have at the very most two years worth of food stored."

"What of the greenhouses?" LIttlefinger asked, "Winterfell has always been able to grow its own food during winter."

"Damn!" Sansa exclaimed, curling up her fists. "I forgot all about them. They were destroyed by the Ironborn and Roose Bolton never got around to fixing them."

"Can they be repaired?"

Sansa put her fingers on the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. A sigh escaped her lips. "Yes," she said, "They can be fixed. Yet it would take several months to a year to get food being raised in them. Also, what about fugitives? We are already seeing people pour into here!"

"Take a deep breath," Littlefinger said. Sansa felt his hand on her shoulder, rubbing it. She felt oddly comfortable and comforted by the action. The support was needed at the moment. "Think! This is your time to show the North what a leader you are. I like to play a game where I think of my situation and how to better improve it. So, what do you have right now in the way of resources?"

"Two years of food at most," she said, "There are a few pigs, but they won't be eatable for at least a year."

"What do you have that everyone else wants?"

"An illusion of safety," she opened her eyes and leaned forward against the walls. "Everyone will gather here because they feel that we can provide for them. Yet we don't have enough food to support tons of new people."

"The third question I ask myself is where can I get the resources I need?"

"The sea."

"Ah! But the roads are going to be terrible and the sea can only provide a very little of what you need."

"Hunting."

"True, but the woods will be scarce as animals move south to get warmer. Give it a few months at most, and there will be no animals except those that sleep through winter to hunt."

Sansa mulled the options over in her head. So, the sea was out of the question. Not completely, but that food was probably going to stay in the port cities or villages close to them. Hunting was also going to dry up, and depending on the weather, they probably weren't going to travel far for safety reasons.

Where could they get more food? If they couldn't hunt, if fish were going to dry up as it were, and the greenhouse wasn't going to be operational for a few weeks and food wouldn't even start coming forth for months, they had to think of another place.

Then a thought entered her mind. "The other cities!" she exclaimed, pleased as she came to the answer. "They have all stock-piled food as well!"

"Good!" Littlefinger said with an encouraging tone of excitement, as if this discovery on her part was a major breakthrough. "Last question I like to ask is this: how do I get the resources I need so I can provide the service everyone else needs?"

"We send a raven to all the cities and villages of the North," Sansa said, excited as she came across this idea. "Those who send us a tenth of their supplies will be able to come to Winterfell if they need to. Those who don't send us food, will have to bring some sort of other service to us if they are going to come here."

"Excellent!" Littlefinger cried out, and grabbed her both shoulders and turned her towards him. The joy in his eyes made Sansa feel taller than she had already been. She was after-all a tall lady to begin with. "This is the type of thinking of gains you support and followers. This type of thinking shows how good and wise a leader you are. Keep this up, and you won't need Jon to be here. He can do whatever his little heart desires for this supposed war that will happen, because you will be a Queen in the North in your own right!"

Sansa couldn't help but give the older man a big hug. With Littlefinger, he had always challenged her to become more than she was. He was always encouraging her, teaching her the arts of politics, even when she didn't realize it at first.

"Thank you, Petyr," she said, pulling back from him. "I can't wait to tell Jon. Imagine how thrilled he'll be to hear of this idea of mine!"

Littlefinger's eyebrows furrowed a bit in uncertainty. She raised an eyebrow to him. If anyone understood how Littlefinger worked, it was Sansa, yet she didn't understand his reaction to this. She had always understood he didn't think as highly of Jon as she did, but what could he possibly be concerned about.

"What is it?" she asked.

Littlefinger cleared his throat. "I have known all the Stark men," he said turning away from her and resting his hand on the railing of the balcony, looking out towards the walls of Winterfell. "They are good, honorable men, all of them. I don't want to disparage your brother, but…."

"But what?" Sansa asked.

"Stark men are always stubborn," he explained, shaking his head. "There are no good ideas unless it's their idea. I'm not saying they aren't well-intentioned, far from it. Yet they only see their own virtues and ideas as important and downplay anyone else's ideas if it doesn't line up with their own."

Sansa wasn't sure she understood what he was saying. "Jon is a little stubborn and pigheaded," she reasoned, shrugging her shoulder, "He got more so as we got older as children. But, Father was always listening to other people."

Littlefinger snorted. "Forgive me, Sansa but I must disagree with that," he said, turning to her. "Rickard Stark was told not to challenge the King for the return of his daughter. Yet he did, and he died. Brandon Stark, your uncle, was a bully. Yes, he was honorable, but he would only do as his father said. He was a tool, as I've heard the saying goes. Your father listened to no one, and that's what got him killed in King's Landing."

"No," Sansa said, shaking her head. Heat was flaring up at the slight against her father. It was untrue! "It was Joffrey who didn't listen. He said, 'I'll let your father go free' yet betrayed his oath…."

"No, sweet girl!" Littlefinger said, grabbing her gently by both arms, and kissing her on the forehead. "I'm not referring to Joffrey's part. He was indeed a monster. Yet he was right in one thing: your father did indeed want to replace Joffrey. Now, before you get angry, think about it. Joffrey truly was an incestuous bastard. He wanted Stannis on the throne because Stannis had the rightful claim. Would it not have been the Stark way to keep the rightful King on the throne and not bastards?"

Sansa thought about all she knew about her father. The tension slowly was draining from her. Yes, that was the way of her father. Her father had told her many times 'Right makes right', referring to it didn't matter who had the strength. It was only what was right and true that mattered.

"Renly offered him help," Littlefinger rubbed her upper arms, "but Eddard Stark refused his help. Because he believed, quite rightly, that helping Renly would result in Renly becoming King. I offered him help as well."

"You did?" Sansa asked, looking into his eyes. She had been told by Cersei once that truth lay in the eyes and you could tell the truth by looking into one's eyes. So, she held Littlefinger's eyes, looking for any deception.

Baelish nodded his head slowly, holding her gaze. "I offered him the entire City Watch, the Gold Cloaks," he explained, "Two thousand men. We could have easily overcome the Lannister soldiers, and removed Joffrey. I told your father, "Ned, I can give you these men! Buy their loyalty and we can gain control of the throne for Stannis!' Yet Ned refused, several times, because the proud fool did not want to actually want to forcibly remove the bastard. He thought Joffrey would have the same honor to give up his claim, as Eddard Stark always had."

Sansa could see only sincerity in Littlefinger's eyes. She pulled back from him and turned away from him, crossing her arms across her middle. Her father had denied Littlefinger's help? Was it because of her mother? Did he assume that Littlefinger would eventually betray him if he accepted his help?

"Why?" she asked, staring at snow that had accumulated on the walkway. "Why would you be so bold as to make so an open move? You've always operated in the shadows, where it is safe."

"The reason is quite simple, my love," he explained. "I have told you that my goal is to sit on the Iron Throne one day, and I knew Stannis would be far easier for me to control to eventually gain that cold iron throne then that contemptuous little shit that was on the throne. That twisted little monster murdered several of my whores simply because he was bored. Have I ever lied to you?"

Everything he said lined up with what she knew about Petyr Baelish, Littlefinger. She didn't actually know Stannis personally, but no one had been able to control Joffrey. Joffrey had been a wild child, and he had continually tormented Sansa after becoming King by informing her of the terrible things he'd do to her on their wedding night and how she would essentially be a sexual slave of his. That was between the beatings and public humiliation.

Robb had also been killed because he was too stubborn and proud to listen to others. She had heard the reports by the few whom had escaped the Red Wedding. She had dared asked Roose Bolton one time why he had betrayed Robb. She had feared he would have backhanded her, but with his emotionless face he had detailed to her about Robb's reign and how he had refused to listen to council.

 _In the end, it was his pride that refused to allow others to voice opinions he would heed that lost him the North,_ Roose had told her and those words played in her mind.

"No," she shook her head. Then turned to him and squared her shoulders. "But Jon is only half-Stark. He isn't tainted by the same breed of stubbornness and unwillingness to listen to others."

"Now you're just lying to yourself," Littlefinger said, disapproval and sadness filling his voice. "I know you want to be close to him and turn a blind eye to his faults, but you told him multiple times to wait for more men. Yet he refused to wait, resulting in nearly losing the Battle of the Bastards. You had to rescue him!"

 _But I didn't tell him about the Vale,_ she thought. So he wouldn't have known that help was coming. Yet if he had trusted her, he would have waited. No, she shut down the thought. Littlefinger was looking out for her best interests, but she refused to let him darken her perception of Jon.

"Send your ravens!" Littlefinger pressed, "Get the food here, be the best Lady of Winterfell there has ever been. Then tell him about it and see how he reacts! If he eagerly accepts it, then I have been mistaken and I will beg forgiveness from you. However, if what I say is true, you will know how much he truly values your contributions to his cause."

Sansa liked that idea, taking her leave of LIttlefinger. She walked into the main keep of Winterfell, and headed through the chilled hallways. Her feet took her to the chambers that had once been her mother and fathers. A pleasant wave of heat hit her full in the face as she stepped into the geothermally heated chambers. She unclasped the robe that she had worn and laid it on the chest at the foot of her bed.

Walking over to the table, she took a seat, rearraigning the skirt of her dress so she could actually sit without the heavy cloth bunching up and tangling around her legs. Grabbing an inkwell at the top corner of her desk, she swirled it ever so slightly to see if the ink had frozen or was good. Satisfied as she saw the liquid gently swill inside the inkwell, she set down, took the raven feathered quill off the table, pulled a scroll towards her and began to write. The sound of the quill scratching the parchment soon as all she could hear.

Jon would approve of her initiative! He would agree how good an idea this was! No matter what Littlefinger said, she didn't completely trust his perception of Jon to be unbiased. He seemed to think that Jon was vying for affection of Sansa and wishing to take her to bed, being only half-siblings. Sansa knew Littlefinger's feelings for her, yet Jon was no Jaime, and she was no Cersei. The very idea disgusted her.

 _You'll see,_ Sansa thought to herself. _Jon will prove you wrong!_


	23. Epi 4, Ch 2: Tyrion

***Tyrion***

Most people thought Dragonstone was just a massive fortress. That there were no amenities. That wasn't true. When Stannis had abandoned Dragonstone for whatever reason, there had been many people who had stayed behind. About five hundred people of all walks of life. The kennel master had been one. The saddlemaker had been another such person.

Yet it had been surprise to him when he had arrived at the brothel that Tyrion found it up and running. The brothel keeper, a rotund lady named Mistress Clare, had been more than eager to accept his business.

"My Lord Tyrion," she said, leading him through her establishment. Heavy perfumes wafted through the air as she led Tyrion by the hand. "I am most pleased that you decided to grace us with your presence. May I inquire to your preference?"

"I have been having a very rough past couple of days and I've been trying to avoid the Queen," he admitted. "So, I would like a woman who I can fuck like it's the end of the world. Yet at the same time be capable of keeping confidences secret. I'd like to be able to voice my opinions without her blabbing her mouth. I'd like her to be experienced, I'll bed no women who are still basically children."

The Madame of the House _hmmd_ to herself as she thought over his options. She stopped outside the main chamber where all the whores would be gathered and with an "aha!" snapped her fingers.

"I have just the woman for you, my lord!" she said, pushing aside the curtains and led him inside. "I have just the woman for you! Experienced, in good health, willing to keep a secret."

Tyrion stepped into the room as she motioned him inside. There was roughly two dozen women and a couple of men in various states of undress lounging about the common room. He looked each over and found several Valantians, Essosians for certain. The most of them were pale skinned Westerosi with fair skin and well-kept hair. There were a few plump women, he had never been into plump ones, but he could understand the appeal.

"Where is Teena?" the Madame asked, surveying the room.

"She had to take a shite," one of the men said, wiping off invisible dust off his well-muscled arms.

"Foolish girl," she shook her head. "Tysha! You're up!"

 _Tysha?_ Tyrion frowned. His first wife of a full two weeks had been a whore named Tysha. Wouldn't it be ironic if this was the same person? No, it couldn't be. There's no way she was going to meet her again. Although it would have been interesting to be able to talk with her again and seen how her life had turned out.

A woman of slender frame and well-rounded bust stepped forward. Long flowing locks of golden hair obscured her face. Lifting a hand, she parted her hair with an easy smile…..until she saw Tyrion. And Tyrion saw her.

"My lord Tyrion?" she asked, her eyebrows coming together in a knot.

"T-T-Tysha?" Tyrion stammered, looking at the woman. Her face hadn't changed in all these years, even though her body certainly had changed from the teenaged body with almost no tits and freckles. The freckles were gone, her breasts had blossomed into a glorious display. Yet it was the same woman.

"You know each other?" Mistress Clare asked.

Tyrion couldn't say anything but nodded his head. He was stunned by the sudden revelation that his first wife was suddenly standing here, before him. Tysha however was not stunned into silence.

"He was my first husband."

* * *

Tyrion wasn't quite sure how to react. They had sojourned to a chamber she used for her whoring and she sat on one side of the room and he the other. He tried to talk, but failed. She tried to talk, but failed. It was much awkwardness that pervaded their time in the room.

"How about a drink?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, relief seeping through at the suggestion.

She stood up and walked to a small table which held a pitcher and two cups. She grabbed the pitcher and poured the liquid into the two, taking one over to him. He took it from her, thanking her as she retreated back to her side of the room.

"I never expected to see you again," she said.

"Nor I you," he acknowledged, taking a sip. He tried not to grimace. Mistress Clare had pour taste in wine. This stuff tasted like horse piss. "You look well."

"As do you," Tysha said. "You've gained a nasty scar. Where did you get it?"

"Battle of the Blackwater," he explained. "I was leading the defense of King's Landing. I was Hand of the King."

"Yes, I know you were," she said, taking a sip. She seemed to take the horse piss in easy stride. "I've been following you closely since….well, since."

There was no need to explain what the 'since' was. They both had been traumatized by what had happened that day so many years ago. It had shaped Tyrion's life in so many ways. Had Jaime not arraigned for Tysha to pretend to need help, how would things have turned out better?

"I have always wanted to tell you something," Tyrion said, taking another sip of the horse piss to brace himself.

"Oh?"

"I am sorry for everything that happened," he said. "It was a cruel trick that my father played on us. And especially how he treated you at the end. It is a poor reward for doing a well-done job."

Tysha cocked her head, her eyes frowning in confusion. "What in Seven Hells are you talking about?" she asked.

Tyrion waved his hand vaguely. "My brother hired you for me to rescue you and get laid, to become a man," he replied. "You did you job well, and then my father, instead of realizing you were doing what you were doing a job, decided to punish you. And brutally if I must say so. I still remember you screams as the first five took you, and hard."

"What are you talking about?" she repeated her question. "Who told you I was hired to pretend to need help?"

"Well, my father told me that's what Jaime had said," Tyrion replied. He wasn't sure why she was forgetting the details. Although, it had been a good what? Twenty years or so? It could be easy to forget stuff, especially when related to traumatic experiences. "You were the closest whore he could hire to do the job."

"A whore? Fuck that!" she snapped, standing to her feet and pacing around the room, ranting and raving as she roamed the room to and fro. "I wasn't hired to do anything! I really was set upon by ruffians! I wasn't a whore, I was the single daughter of a farmer. I thought I had entered a dream when you came to my rescue, Tyrion. It was the closest thing to love I have ever experienced in this pathetic excuse of a life I have been dealt! The fact that my father refused to let me back home after I was continually raped by your father's men forced me to actually become a whore! Had I never met you….I have cursed the day I ever saw you, these two decades!"

Tyrion listened to her rant and her rage. Tyrion had only said what was true. Why was she lying?

"So, you are saying it was really love that we had and not some job?" he asked skeptically.

She whirled on him, fists clenched. "I think it's best you left," Tysha told him coldly.

Tyrion nodded his head. He got to his feet and keeping all his coins to himself, left the chambers and left the whore house.

* * *

His meeting with Tysha had shaken Tyrion just as badly as what had happened with the men on the cliffs. He couldn't understand why she was lying. He knew his father had been a cruel and vindictive man, yet he had never gone out of his way to lie to people. No, he had enjoyed the moments of triumph when the truth of their folly was made clear.

Tyrion was so wrapped up with his thoughts that he wasn't watching where he was going when he ran full tilt into someone. He jumped back with a start as the other person cursed his not looking.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he started but when he looked at the person he had run into, his eyes widened. "Forgive me, Your Grace."

"You better have had a good reason for not watching where you were going," she said grumpily, running her hands down the front of her dress. Missandei was standing next to her, a hand on the Queen to help steady her.

"I had an unpleasant run-in with my past," he explained.

Daenerys looked at him with a questioning look. He shrugged. "Never mind," he said. He grasped for something to say or to do. They had been avoiding each other for days, as it was clear they had not agreed on the course of action with the prisoners.

"I have a gift for you, my Queen," Tyrion finally settled on.

"Varys mentioned you were making me a gift," Daenerys commented. "What is it?"

Tyrion gave a half-smile. "It's a surprise," he informed her and held his fingers up to his lips. "You wouldn't want me to spoil it, would you?"

"What if act surprised when you give it to me?" she asked, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Would you tell me then?"

Tyrion laughed and shook his head. "If my nephews and niece couldn't make me fall for that trick, then you won't have much luck either, Your Grace," he said. He then turned sideways and held out a hand to her. "However, if you would take my hand, Your Grace, I will be more than willing to take you to it."

Daenerys looked down at the hand a weird look on her face. But, she shrugged, and grabbing his thick hand in her small thin one, she let Tyrion lead her. Missandei followed at a respectful distance, but Tyrion glanced back to see Daenerys hold out her hand to the interpreter and Missandei took it as well. So, hand in hand, he led them all to where the gift was kept.

"I've never done this, Your Grace," Missandei informed Daenerys, sounding more than a little uncomfortable.

"You're telling me you've never held hands with another person and just walked?" Daenerys asked, glancing sideways at her.

"Never," Missandei shook her head.

Tyrion held up a finger in the air and accusingly pointed it at her. "That," he declared, "Is a lie. I've seen you and Grey Worm holding hands."

Missandei's face flushed in embarrassment and Daenerys laughed at the sudden discomfort of the other woman. Tyrion knew how foolish and out of character this must seem to those who saw them walking. However, it was good to get them past any tension they had. And honestly, who was going to see them? A few Unsullied, who wouldn't give a single shit about their Queen doing something fun. The few people on the island had finally gotten used to having Daenerys Stormborn among them, and it would do for people to see that she wasn't as cold and aloof as so many other rulers were.

"So tell me, what is the nature of this gift?" she asked as they left the citadel and moved to the small village that dotted the west coast of Dragonstone. That's where everyone else that wasn't important enough to be in the citadel stayed.

"Tell me, Missandei of the island of Naath," Tyrion said, addressing his response more to her. "What is the single most important thing to try to remain as when trying to stay alive?"

Missandei didn't quiet get the question so she shrugged. Daenerys' hand tightened a bit around Tyrion's as they entered the village, but two Unsullied fell into step behind them, these men having stood guard at the entrance of the village. Her hand relaxed.

"The single most thing is to remain safe," Tyrion answered her question. A few children laughed as they ran. A round leather ball was being kicked between them and a kick sent it souring towards the small company. The ball was flying towards Daenerys but Tyrion, a champion of playing kickball as a child, sidestepped, leaned his head forward and used his thick skull to propel it back towards the children.

They kept moving, his firm guidance leading them through the village of plain brown wooden buildings and haphazardly shaped streets. It was rather surprising that the island that had served as the launching point of Aegon's Conquest had never seen fit to truly fashion this small settlement into an actually planned place. Nope, everything was just willy-nilly constructed.

"And especially when riding beasts like horses," Tyrion continued, "It is best to be as safe as possible. Horses are creatures with minds of their own, and if you are not careful, they'll throw you off. Tell me, Missandei of the Island of Naath, how does a rider reduce the risk of being tossed?"

"By having the horse wearing a saddle," she answered.

"Exactly," Tyrion nodded. "Ah! Here we are! Mort, is it ready? The Queen is here for it!"

They had just approached a workshop, and entering it Tyrion was at once hit with the smell of tanning oils and newly molded leather. Straw was scattered across the floor of the shop, clean straw that helped with feet gripping the floor and cleanliness. Daenerys let go to Tyrion's hand as she wandered the workshop, looking at all the fine saddles that lined the walls and on the work benches and tables. Tyrion watched her fingers touched and feeling individual saddles.

"Rarely have I seen such fine craftsmanship," she marveled, especially as Tyrion saw her eye catch a jewel studded saddle.

"Why, thank'e, Yer Grace," a voice said from a door, bowing his head as the saddle-maker entered the workshop. The two Unsullied guards took two steps inside the workshop, giving warning by their very presence that he should mind himself. "Do ye like it? Ye can have it iv ye wants it. That was fer Queen Cersei, as a geeft from da Capt. A peety it will not reach her, beggen yer pardon of course."

"I have no need for such a fine saddle," Daenerys assured her. "I don't ride horses."

"No, ye don't," the saddlemaker said, his eyes filled with wonder and a lopsided smile on his face. "Ye be riding dem dragons. I was of course intrigued when yer Hand came ta me and made da cummison fer da saddle. Making saddles fer dragons! But he told me yer need fer one, and I obliged. Took some work, but….."

"Is it ready?" Tyrion asked, interrupting the man. He had a tendency to drone on and on.

"Keep yer shits in ye!" Mort the Saddlemaker said with hands held high, "It be done! Ye two!" he pointed fingers at the Unsullied. "Give me a hand, will ye? It be on da heavy side."

Daenerys looked intrigued, so she nodded her head. The two Unsullied leaned their spears against the wall and began to move forward but the saddlemaker shook his head. The two Unsullied stopped, and looked blankly down on him.

"Ye will be needing both of yer hands," he informed them. "Best be leaving da shields here. Don't be werrying. Only me and da boy here. Da boy has da fever, so he be sleeping."

"Your son is ill?" Missandei asked, her voice showing concern. Tyrion glanced at her and saw that she was far more comfortable, now that she wasn't holding hands with anyone.

The saddlemaker seemed to notice her for the first time. "Begging yer pardon of course, yer Grace," he inclined his head, "I be not casting aspursions on yer own beauty. But yer handmaiden be de finest woman I ever dun see. Reminds me of my wife, Gods rest her soul. Been seven years since da Gods took her. Very pretty dis one, any man would be glad….."

The Unsullied hand by now leaned their shields up against the wall. Missandei was uncomfortable, and Tyrion could understand. She was indeed a fine woman, and he envied Grey Worm's success. He knew his luck with women had not been the best, but he couldn't imagine always being objectified like that.

"The saddle," Tyrion said, cutting through Mort's rambling.

"Of course! Of course!" Mort cursed, turning to lead the Unsullied to another room. "Calm yer tits! Mort is not as young as he use ta be. Just me and da boy, raising da boy all by my lonesome, I am! And making saddles fer da high and mighty…."

Mort's rambling curses and rants continued as they three men went back into another room and there would sounds of grunting and heavy lifting of something off a wooden table. In through the door first came one Unsullied. He was holding something very large and there was curses as Mort tried to get the Unsullied to keep moving. Slowly they worked it out so they finally were over all in the workshop.

"Move it over da table and roll it out, so da Queen can see it!" Mort instructed them, and they did so. Tyrion looked pleased at it as Daenerys' eyes widened. Mort looked as happy as a cat with a mouse. "What do ye tink of it?"

The saddle laid before her had three layers. A sculpted top with a raised horn, with stag horns somehow worked into the saddle. Tyrion hoped he had gotten the measurements of the queen's ass and legs correct. Although it wasn't like he was going to go up to the Queen and feel her up to get measurements. That was a quick way to her dragons.

The second layer was a thick cushioning of a fur that Tyrion did not recognize. The bottom layer was also of leather. All three layers were latched together by strong iron buckles and leather. The entire saddle roughly covered the table, with slots and loops and pouches to put things in.

"I put stag fer in da middle layer," Mort said proudly. "I hope ye don't mind de stag horns. I'd have put dragons horn of course, but dey don't shed horns, now do dey?" He laughed as if he had made a joke.

"Magnificent," she breathed, grabbing the massively long straps, "This saddle is for my dragons?"

"Yesh!" Mort said with a big grin on his face. "Yer Hand, he be telling me, dat ye been riding bareback. How have ye not scraped yerself raw on de dragonscales is beyond me. And I'm sure out of all da tings ye want thrust inside of ye, a dragon spike is not among dem. Da straps can be adjusted for de ever increasing size of da dragons to, dat is why I have so much leather in da straps."

Tyrion rolled his eyes at the crudeness of the saddlemaker. Daenerys however had not noticed as she swept her hands over the fine saddle. At long last, after she had inspected every inch of it, she stood up and inclined her head.

"I thank you for your work," she said, "You can send it up to the castle when you are able to."

With that, she turned and left the workshop, Tyrion and Missandei following close behind her. The Unsullied followed after her after retrieving their shields and spears. They didn't speak until they had left the village, then Daenerys turned to Tyrion.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why what?" Tyrion asked.

"Why did you have a saddle made for me?" she asked, seeming to actually be frustrated with him. "I have never ridden with one on the dragons. They aren't horses and have never dropped me. So why do I need a saddle?"

Tyrion was surprised by her reaction. "Isn't it obvious?" Tyrion asked. "At any time, if the dragons turn the wrong way, and you aren't prepared, you could get thrown off the dragon and die. The dragons might be made of hard scales, but you aren't, you are still flesh and blood. And as much as I don't agree with you burning prisoners, I really want you to succeed and live a long life."

With a roll of her eyes, Daenerys turned from him. They kept walking towards the fortress and Tyrion could see her hands clasped in front of her. They were walking side by side now, Daenerys not walking faster than Tyrion could keep up.

"I understand your concern for my safety," she said over her shoulder, "Yet my dragons will never drop me." She paused for a second, then stopped, and put a hand on his shoulder. "I do thank you though," she said with something close to a smile. "Although, perhaps we should hold hands again. Might send the wrong message."

"The only message it will send is that you are mine and no one better make passes at you, Your Grace," Tyrion jested, and Daenerys laughed.


	24. Epi 4, Ch 3: The Hound

***The Hound***

Sandor Clegane sat with arms crossed. The Brotherhood without Banners were doing Gods knows what, Thoros of Myr, that stupid fire worshipping cunt was making prayers to the Lord of Light. Beric Dondarrion was consulting maps of the Wall and deciding what would be the best place they should go in helping defend the Wall.

Few understood what it was like for Sandor to try to see the world. Only one eye actually could see clearly. The other eye was partially closed with scar tissue from his facial burns. So everything through that eye came off a tad fuzzy. He had long since learned how to compensate for that deficiency. Didn't make it any easier though. He could see well enough to see people trying not to look at his scars, their eyes averting from the burns.

It was a little hard to avoid though. Not with his face as burned over as it was.

"How the fuck are you still alive?" a strong female voice asked him and he looked at Brienne of Tarth. He had not heard her walk up, as he had been busy staring at a piece of wall on the other side of the room. "Anyone who received as harsh a beating as I gave them always end up in the ground. You though…."

"I'm a tough fucker to kill," he replied with a grim smile. "Don't worry yourself overly much. You gave it the best shot anyone ever has. I've had little girls more fierce then you that have tried to kill me as well but failed."

Brienne didn't know what to say to that but she gave him that look. Like she was going to cut out his liver and eat it while he watched unable to stop her.

"I see you are protecting Sansa Stark now," the Hound commented.

Brienne nodded. "I see that Arya Stark is gone," she replied. "What happened? Where is she?"

The Hound raised his hand and waved it vaguely. "After you threw me off of that cliff, I was in a really bad way," he admitted, "That little girl robbed me of my money, told me she was going leave me to die and took off at a steady walk. I watched her little form retreating even as I begged her to kill me. No one should be left like that."

The large woman seemed uncomfortable. That was an unspoken rule among warriors. You simply didn't leave people in pain without finishing the job. Only if the person was too badly hurt though. There was no need for people to become damn sadistic and murder people that could be saved.

"You know," Brienne said, "I was only trying to protect Arya."

"What do you think I was doing?" he retorted angrily, "You think I was abusing her? No, I only look like a bastard, I'm not. We got to the Twins to see her entire fucking family butchered like cattle. I'm glad that cunt Walder Frey got what he deserved."

"So, how did you ever survive that fall then?" she asked.

Sandor shrugged his shoulder. "It's a long and uninteresting tale involving cunts of all walks of life," he said. "Let's just say, that I'm not the same man I was beforehand. The Hound is gone, leaving only Sandor Clegane."

Brienne nodded and a moment of silence passed between them. A silence where they came to an understanding. They both knew what the other was doing, and they approved of it. Brienne turned and walked away, leaving Sandor alone.

He leaned forward, sighing. It had been a long road for him. So much anger had been the way of things for him. His lot in life. Yes, he was different in many ways, and much of the anger that had driven him before was replaced by a grim determination. A determination to do what though? He really had no idea.

About two weeks before showing up in Winterfell, they had stopped at a farm. A farm which just happened to be where he had robbed that farmer and his daughter of their money. He had not wanted to stay there, but the Brotherhood had needed the shelter for the night. He had seen the father and daughter wrapped in each other's arms and saw the knife in the father's hand. He had told Arya that "They'll die come winter" and it had been fulfilled as he had said. Yet, if they had been left the money, they might have escaped a place that was warm and could have taken care of them.

He had dug their graves and buried them himself. He had hated himself for what he had done. Yes, the decayed state of their bodies proved that they had killed themselves before winter had truly set in, and that his prediction that the farmer couldn't provide for them during the winter months had been proven only too true. Yet, what if the money could have spared them?

A white wolf came padding into the chamber, red eyes glowing in the light it seemed. Black nose like a stone on a snowy field that wasn't hidden by the snow. It approached Sandor, sniffing him and slowly pacing back and forth before him, keeping its long face towards him.

"What the fuck do you want, dog?" Sandor asked annoyed at the beast. "Do you notice a kindred spirit? I'm a Hound and you're a dog."

"He's not a dog," another woman's voice said, "He's a direwolf. Ghost is his name. He's making sure you aren't going to hurt me."

"You can tell this direwolf he can go to Hells," he replied, "I'm not going to hurt you, Little Bird."

Sansa walked into the room, and stepped next to Ghost. She put a hand on the direwolf's head and scratched it, the ghost white direwolf sitting, keeping an unblinking silent gaze fixed on Sandor, a silent sentinel.

"I am sorry I haven't come to see you earlier," she apologized.

"No need to," Sandor shook his head. Sansa had gone from a shy little girl to a beautiful young woman. The way she carried herself spoke of a freedom she did not have anywhere else. "You are an important lady now. I can understand, and your brother is now King of the North. Is Ghost your brother's?"

"Yes," she nodded.

Sandor stood to his feet and took a step towards her. Ghost growled softly, baring his fangs so Sandor could clearly see them. The Hound rolled his eyes. Protective little shit, wasn't he, even though he came up roughly to Sansa's breasts.

"My brother left him here to protect me," Sansa said, rubbing Ghost's ear. "He does a good job as any. Between him and Brienne, no one's touching me ever again unless I allow it."

"I see," Sandor said. "Not even for a friend?"

"Are we?" Sansa asked, "Are we really friends?"

Sandor shook his head. "No, not really," he agreed. "Friends have things in common, and I don't have friends. Only cunts in my life. Some are lesser cunts than others. Yet cunts all the same."

"Oh yes we are," Sansa said and stepping up to Sandor wrapped him in a tight embrace. "You were always so kind to me, you were one of the few that protected me in King's Landing. I wished I had the strength to have accepted your offer all those years ago."

The hug had surprised Sandor. Also being called her friend. Not close friends, but to be called a friend was…..well, it was different. To be embraced by anyone was not something he was used to. People just didn't do that. What also surprised him was that she had placed her head, which was nearly at his level, against his burned side. Without thinking.

He returned the hug, feeling strange towards Sansa. It was, satisfied. Satisfied to find someone who had come to accept him, faults and all. She didn't know the half of what he was capable of, but didn't care. Well…..that wasn't true now that he thought of it. She had seen how he brutalized people before. Some of them in her defense.

Ghost had pulled his teeth back in his muzzle, no longer threatening. Yet he kept a close eye on Sandor. Which was fine by him.

"I'd like you to have supper with me," she said, pulling back. "I want to hear all about your adventures. And…..I heard you were with Arya."

"Yes, I was," the Hound nodded. "Tough little bird, that one."

"I'd like to hear all about her too," Sansa said and turning, held Sandor by the hand and led him to the door. Ghost padded closely behind them, and the Hound had an uncomfortable sensation of the direwolf keeping his jaw close to where he could tear off his ass if he decided.

"Will there be any chicken?" Sandor asked hopefully.

* * *

There had been no chicken, curse all the Gods. Sandor preferred chicken, but he made do with the venison. It was tough, speaking to it not being a fresh kill. The meal wasn't a large affair, a few vegetables to go along with the venison portions they ate. He sat on the other side of a small table from Sansa, not quiet believing that the awkward gangly girl that he had first seen at Winterfell had turned into such a graceful lady.

He told Sansa all about his adventures with Arya and he recounted each of her kills. He told her about the list she had of people she was going to kill. The time Arya had tried to bash his head in with a massive rock. He told her of the time they punched out a pig farmer so they could take his wagon to the Red Wedding.

"You were there?" Sansa asked when he came to that point. "I've heard disturbing rumors, but no one who was actually there has told me the truth about it. Did they really shove my brother's direwolf head on his body?"

"After removing his, yes," Sandor replied. He never believed in beating around the bush with people.

They had just come to his fight with Brienne over Arya when Littlefinger stepped into the room, followed by Yohn Royce. Sandor turned to them, seeing the slimy little git and gave him a harsh look. He had known Littlefinger was here, but to see him getting so close to Sansa, made him want to punch him in the face.

"My Lady Sansa," Littlefinger said, stepping up to the table, "When you have a moment, ravens have arrived from Holdfast and Cerwyn accepting the tithe of food you have asked of them. We need to discuss them."

"Alright," Sansa said, "As soon as I am done here with Ser Sandor I'll come talk with you about it."

"Very good," Lord Baelish said, and Sandor's eyes followed Littlefinger's hand as it rested on Sansa's hand and watched as his thumb caressed her hand. He watched her reaction, but saw she didn't pull back. A quick glance up to her face showed she seemed to actually enjoy the touch. Ghost growled from the corner, which automatically brought up Sandor's opinion of him.

 _Perhaps you aren't as stupid as I thought,_ Sandor though towards the direwolf.

"So you are still alive," Lord Baelish said, turning to Sandor, "Imagine that."

"Not hard to imagine," he replied, giving the man a stern glance. "I am a tough fucker to kill."

Littlefinger chuckled. "So what brings you to Winterfell?" he asked. "I see you are with the Brotherhood without Banner now. Isn't it true that they worship a fire god? I'd assume it would be the last place you would align yourself, with fire worshipping fanatics."

"I'd assume you'd keep to yourself and fuck off," Sandor retorted.

Littlefinger laughed and turning, headed out of the hall, Yohn Royce following him. Sandor turned his gaze back to Sansa and saw the look in her eyes as she looked at him.

"That was rude," she said to him.

"I thought you would have better taste in men," Sandor said, "Littlefinger uses everyone. He doesn't care for you if you think he does. He only cares about getting what he wants. He doesn't love, he possesses."

"I know exactly what he wants," Sansa told him curtly.

Sandor snorted. "No one knows what Littlefinger really wants," he argued, "He will tell you one thing, but always assume it's a lie. He's not to be trusted. Even your bastard brother's direwolf can tell that."

Sansa crossed her arms. She wasn't listening to anything that didn't bring up her beloved Petyr Baelish it seemed. Sandor shook his head and grabbed a small carrot on his plate and chomped down on it. He didn't truly care who she wanted to fuck, but he saw that any affection towards Littlefinger was bad.

"Why should you care?" she asked, "You can't accuse me of loving him, because I don't'"

"I never said you did, little bird."

"Because if you thought so, that's just a preposterous idea."

"If you say so."

"Why do you even care?" she demanded.

Sandor ran the back of his hand over his face, wiping away juices from the food that had seeped into his beard. He held Sansa's proud gaze in a look of his own.

"The reason I care," he said, "Is because I see you doing so much better than that cunt. You have infinite potential, and can chose whomever you wish. You are one of the few ladies that can pick your choice out of any crowd, and I would not want to see you with anyone who would use you. You deserve to be a lady whose husband respects you. Anything less would be a damn crime against everything good. And you are good."

Sansa turned her eyes downwards. She shook his head. Some of his words were getting to her, but not the ones that really mattered. Claim what she would, be Sandor could see clearly enough, even with an eye that had fuzzy sight. She was indeed feeling very strong romantic feelings for Littlefinger, even if she couldn't see it. Poor fool.

Well, he knew this wasn't going to go anywhere. He put his hands on the table and pushed back, stretching his back and hearing his back pop in several places grunted.

"There is one thing I want to know," Sandor said.

Sansa turned her eyes back to him. She had really descriptive eyes. He had noticed that, even as a girl who hadn't yet bleed that her eyes were unveiled for all to read.

"Are you happy?"

"What?"

"The question is quite simply," he responded. "Are you happy?"

"I don't see what that really has to do with anything….." she said, but, Sandor decided to pull a Littlefinger. He reached across the table and grabbed her by the hand. Her skin was so soft compared to his hard, callused hands.

"I have seen you in a state of total misery before," he reminded her. "I have seen you lie with the best of them so Joffrey the Cunt couldn't see your true feelings. You are a survivor, little bird. It gladdens me that you have escaped the clutches of the Royal Court. But…." He let the word stand on its own merit for a few seconds. "I have also heard of your own later problems with the Boltons. How you were sexually abused by those damned freaks. I would have murdered them all before they could have touched you, for I knew their types."

"I know you would have," Sansa said, turning her hand so her palm was in Sandor's.

"But, it would go against my heart if at the end of everything, you weren't happy," he explained to her. "You have had a hard life, and it would be easy to become like me, having lived your life in anger. So, tell me, and tell me truthfully, are you happy?"

She thought about it for a second. It was more than just a simple question, and Sandor knew that. He was asking her to take stock of her life and come to a conclusion. A smile spread across Sansa's face.

"I am back home in Winterfell and it flies the Stark banner," she said, "I have my brother here, people to protect me who actually want to without fear of the consequences. And I don't have to pretend just to survive. So….yes, I am happy."

"Good," Sandor nodded. That's really all he ever had wanted for Sansa Stark. He had been protective of her in King's Landing, because no one else would. When Tyrion had returned, he knew that Tyrion had a good heart, but was he worthy of taking the responsibility of her safety? He never would have left her in King's Landing if he had deemed Tyrion unworthy of doing so.

"Ah!" a voice called out, "There you are, Sandor Clegane!"

"Fuck yourself off, Beric!" Sandor rolled his eye, letting go of her hand and turning to the patch eyed, scarred man. "Can't you see that I am busy right now talking with a little bird?"

Beric frowned. "I don't see any little birds," he commented, "We need to talk with the Hand of the King, since the King is away. He can send a raven to the Night's Watch with a royal seal and we can…."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Sansa interrupted him. "However, Ser Davos Seaworth isn't here."

"Davos Seaworth sound like an idiotic name," the Hound replied with a snort.

"Where is he, my lady?" Beric asked, still standing near the door.

"He's gone south to try to get us new allies," Sansa explained.

"Allies?" Sandor asked, "Whom in the Seven Kingdoms would want to ally with a Bastard who is Kin


	25. Ep 4, Ch 4: Jaime

***Jaime***

There were a few places in King's Landing he actually liked to go to unwind. The place next to the waterfront he and Bronn trained, that was a good place. The ruins of the Dragondome was nice. Yet there were few places like _The Golden Cloak_ tavern for him to be able to escape the notice of the common man. Few could truly spot him on sight in this tavern, so he had chosen this place with Bronn for the night's drinking.

The bar maid was a toothy lass, with a big grin and easy words to anyone who wished to engage her in conversation. Bronn sat across the table, his feet propped on the chair next to him. A large tankard of ale in his hands. Jaime had a tankard himself, froth having spilled over the side when it had been filled, leaving a nice trail running down the side.

 _The Golden Cloak_ was a nice and noisy tavern that brought out the best of everyone. Strangely enough, considering the fact that most men were drunk as skunks here. One of the serving maids screeched as one of the drunks bent over and vomited, missing the bucket next to the table and instead plastered her feet and dress in his vomit.

"Nice place," Bronn stated, as several men burst out singing the song _The Boar who bested the King_. Despite Joffrey removing the tongue of the first man who sang that song, it had become quite a a popular ditty to drunks and no-good-accounts. "Where did you discover this, anyways?"

"Ser Arthur Dayne showed this place to me when I first joined the Kingsguard," Jaime explained, smiling at the memory of his young self being totally awestruck by that God among men. "This is a popular place for the Kingsguard to relax."

"I heard he was good fighter," Bronn remarked. "Yet I heard he was lousy fook."

Jaime shrugged. "I think he was one of those who actually take the whole celibacy part of the oath seriously," he replied.

Bronn gave a mischievous wink. "It was to hide how lousy he was at pleasing ladies," he remarked, "Which come to think of it, where my bigger castle and my prettier wife, eh? You promised me, and I still have seen nothing. You are making me think you are holding out on me."

 _Will you ever shut up about that fucking castle?_ Jaime asked. It seemed to be increasing, Bronn's badgering on the subject. Jaime had promised him a castle and a prettier wife, and he'd get them! Did he have no faith in the Lannister creed of always paying their debts?

He was saved from this unpleasant conversation as the door opened and several men stepped through. Jaime rolled his eyes. No, he didn't want to see these men. Sure, he had been talking about this place as a popular one for them, but did they really have to show up _now_? But now they were lifesavers.

"Then again…." Jaime said with sudden happiness.

Bronn turned to see what had risen Jaime's happy levels. The four men who had just entered the tavern were the old Kingsguard. All the ones that had just been dismissed. They were like a flock of sheep who were leaderless, so they stuck together.

"No, you fooking don't!" Bronn hissed, pointing a finger at him, "We are having this damn conversation now!"

"Ser Boros!" called out Jaime holding up his golden hand to cut through the pleasant haze caused by the warm fire, "Ser Arys! Join us!"

"No!" Bronn hissed but he couldn't keep objecting.

"Ser Jaime!" Ser Boros Blount shouted his name, his voice bellowing through the room to many disapproving glances. "Ser Bronn of the Blackwater! Yes, we will definitely join you!"

Bronn glared daggers at him as Jaime gave him a wink and a shrug. The men shuffled through the tavern, a few times bumping into people who either had their chairs pushed out a little farther than nature intended, or they were wandering around and had been bumped. Bronn crossed his arms and scowled as he pulled his legs off the chair and let it hit the floor.

Ser Boros took the chair that Bronn's feet had just vacated as Ser Arys took the chair on the other side of the table. The other grabbed a nearby table, lifted it and dragged it the three feet between the two tables, much to the chagrin of a drunk who had fallen asleep on the table. The man fell with a nice thump on the ground.

Ser Osmund Kettleblack and Ser Preston Greenfield stole chairs from other tables that were currently empty. Soon, they were nicely situated around the table. Bronn was the odd man out, as she was the only man who wasn't a former member of the Kingsguard.

"Where is Balon Swann?" Jaime asked, "I heard he got dismissed for continually being bested in jousts."

"He's too ashamed to come out and join the rest of us disgracefully discharged knights," Ser Boros shook his head. Boros was a fat man, a creature of Cersei's. It had bewildered Jaime to learn Boros had been dismissed, as it was Cersei who had been able to get him in the Kingsguard in the first place. He had been loyal to a fault, so the decision to sack his position made no sense.

"There's only one thing for it then, as I always say," Bronn said, turning around and shouting, "We need a bunch of ale over here!"

The night passed in off-colored jokes, songs sung off-tune and more than one spill caused by jostling. Jaime had forgotten what it was like to be among so many other men, just having a good time. There was always some measure of duty that had prevented him from having a good time among groups for the longest time. Not now though.

Now he was just one man among knights who had been discharged for no just cause. His had been for trying to use force to get Queen Margery released, his daughter-by-law. It was strange to think of her in those terms, but she had been. All these other men had been dismissed on really bizarre charges.

Balon Swann for being bested too many times in tourneys. Boros Blount for remaining too fat. Ser Arys Oakheart for breaking his vows and letting Myrcella died, although Balon Swann was perhaps one of the few whom hadn't broken his vows in the regards of celibacy. The list went on and on.

It was late in the evening, perhaps well after midnight when the revelry had broken down and they sat around the table. All these men nursing their drinks.

"I remember the days when the whole 'Kingsdguard is for life' actually meant something," Preston said, his arms crossed. "Now, there just don't care."

" _'Kingsdguard?' 'There'?"_ Osmund Kettleblack asked, patting the younger man of the shoulder. "I think you are too drunk. Time for you to go home."

"Where?" Preston asked, suddenly looking bewildered. "Home? My family won't have me back. They've moved on without me, I can't go home."

"Well lad," Bronn said, seeming to have not even been fazed by the amount of libations he had consumed. "That's what happens when join these fooking groups. These types always will fook you in the ass."

Ser Boros had passed out drunk. He was not among them that could easily hold their liquor, as he had proven. He snored loudly, and contentedly. Bronn patted him on the back as he stood up.

"I'm going to take a rather long piss," he announced, "Then I'm going to go home and take a long sleep. Dream of my fooking castle and fooking my pretty wife that I haven't gotten yet. Damn."

Bronn turned and left the tavern, muttering to himself. Jaime wished he would really let it go. He would get that fucking castle. He just had to be patient. Although, the man was a sell-sword. A mercenary whose allegiances only laid in gold. Luckily for him, Jaime had a golden hand, so he always had gold on hand, to pardon the pun.

Jaime looked at these men around the table. Now it was just the _Kingsdguard_ as Preston had called _there._ He had a funny way of making really weird grammatical and others errors when he got drunk. Ser Boros would fall asleep, the rest of them were made of sterner stuff.

"So what will you men do now that you all have been released from the guard?" Jaime asked.

"Ser Boros here says he's leaving and going back home to the Crownlands," Ser Arys said, eyeing the fat-man with no small amount of distaste. "He says there is a war coming, and he refuses to be caught up in the middle of it."

"Damn coward," Osmund Kettleblack snarled. He let out a massive belch that was just as powerful as it was wet and smelly. A few of the tavern patrons cheered his loud belch. Drunks always seemed to appreciate a loud belch. Not everyone was drunk though. Quiet a few were either having a dinner or talking in their own little groups in the corners.

"War is coming now matter if he hides," Preston shook his head. "Ser Boring needs to fight and not sluk like a fool."

Ser Arys snorted in laughter at _Ser Boring_. Ser Boros was perhaps one of the dullest men they had ever encountered. His favorite color was brown, for Gods sake!

"Preston is right," Jaime said, "There is a war coming. The first blood has already been drawn. My cousin Magen lost his entire fleet to the Targaryen girl. Entire cities along the coast have been ransacked by the Dothraki by now. There is only one thing to do: to fight."

"You want us to join you in the war?" Arys asked, frowning. "We're free of our vows and can do whatever. Yet you want us to fight your sister's war?"

Jaime gave him a look that spoke volumes of 'don't be an idiot'. They must realize just how much danger they were all in.

"Look," he put his real hand on the table. "What do you think will happen when Daenerys Targaryen wins this war? Do you think she will let us live in peace? I'm as dead as they come, because I killed her father. You all heard what she did to those prisoners on Dragonstone. Now, think about what will happen to you. No, you didn't kill members of her family, yet you served King Robert, who stole her father's throne. Do you really think she will let that slide? This isn't going to be my father pardoning all the Targaryen loyalists because Robert Baratheon is still healing from his battle wounds."

"Aren't you a cheerful sod?" Ser Osmund remarked with a grumble. "You think this war is already lost. You didn't say 'is she wins'. You said 'when she wins'."

"You are a losuy speaker," Preston declared.

Jaime tried hard not to knock the younger man upside the head for being so hypocritical. He was speaking just fine, thank you very much. He wasn't the one mispronouncing words and replacing words with other ones like 'there' for 'them'.

"We are going to have to fight to prevent that future," he told them all. "Do you think the reign of terror will simply not happen? She's a Targaryen with blood on her mind. You'll be lucky if she doesn't have her whole bloody khalasar fuck us all. We will have to fight and kill as many as possible to prevent this from happening. My sister is a far better choice than Daenerys fucking Targaryen."

"There certainly wouldn't be enough of us left to burn, that's for sure," Arys said in response to Jaime's 'fuck us all' comment.

The table fell silent as they all pondered what he said. Jaime lifted the tankard to his lips and drank the warm ale. This was his third tankard, and it was half full still. He let these men think about what he had said and rolled it in their minds, the different options.

"I've not got anything better to do," Osmund Kettleblack shrugged. "Yeah, I'll fight for you, Ser Jaime. Not your bitch sister though, let me be clear. I fight for you, _not_ her."

"Understood," Jaime inclined his head in thanks. He also wasn't sure he was actually fighting for his sister anymore. He was certain of one thing he was fighting for. To prevent the Mad King's daughter for inflecting a whole new level of terror on the land.

Ser Preston leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, lacing his hands behind him. "I probably will jhoibn you," he said.

"What the fukc did you just say?" Jaime asked, then cursed himself Now he was talking just like Preston! "What the _fuck_ did you just say?" He felt much better having actually said the word correctly.

"Join you!" Preston said frustrated, "that's what I said! Anywhow, I want to see you kill a queen and become a Queenslayer. I hitted you taking out King Arys II, I want to see you do it to his daughter."

 _Hitted? Might have mean missed. I can never tell when he's this drunk._

Arys Oakheart sat, his arms crossed, deep in thought. Jaime wished he knew which way the other man would go. Arys was a fighter, but he didn't have the same joy and thrill and desire for the fight as so many others of their rank did.

"Arys?" he prompted, "What say you?"

"It might be the only way I'll ever get Arianna back," he said wistfully.

"Arianna?" Osmund asked, frowning, "Whose she?"

"Arianna Martell…." Boros Blount muttered in his sleep, "The Dornish bitch whore that Ser Arys is plowing…." Boros completely slipped back into sleep.

"Really?" Osmund asked, his eyes wide. "I didn't know you had it in you to break your celibacy vows."

Arys nodded. Arys Oakheart had been rumored to having a relationship with the oldest daughter of Prince Doran Martell, but Jaime had never actually cared to investigate the rumors. Ser Arys had always been a man who had always come up to Jaime and Ser Barristan in a tremble to ask if he had broken his vows by eating this or doing that. Usually it was nothing even close. So to have him break his vows so completely was a little astonishing to Jaime.

"Sure, I'll join the fight," he finally said.

* * *

Jaime was returning to the Red Keep, staggering as the seventh tankard of ale he had drunk really began to hit him. Only his golden hand guided him, raising it at chin level and tapping it against the wall. Somehow, the tapping helped him keep his balance. Someone tried talking to him, yet he couldn't understand them.

He was to the point in his drunk stupor that he had no idea what people were talking about. He thought he heard people speaking and he knew his mouth moved in response. However, he couldn't be certain. The stairs were the devil to be sure, yet somehow he managed to fall up them as it were.

No one came to help the ex-Lord Commander of the Kingsdguard. That was a good name. Perhaps they should call it _that._ Although technically it would be _Queensdguard_ , technically. The door to his chambers opened, his good hand somehow managing to work the latch properly. He staggered to the bed and fell on it face-first, only his torso actually on the bed, his knees on the stone floor.

There was something about a war that he was supposed to be leading. Wasn't the army heading out in two days? He couldn't remember. Although, in his drunken state, the one thing that came clear was the image of a woman to his mind. She was blond, tall. She had short hair. Was she holding a sword, or was she sitting on a throne of swords? Was she wearing plate armor, or was is a dress of sable black that had spikes like armor?

He muttered a word as he drifted off to sleep. The only word that actually cut through clearly in his drunken haze.

"Sapphires."

* * *

He awoke the next morning with the most pounding of headaches. It sounded like someone was pounding on the side of his head. His left side of his face was really warm and looking, saw a field of light grey confronting him.

"What in Seven Hells?" he asked, slowly pushing himself up. Suddenly it made sense what he had been seeing. It was his grey blanket on his bed. He felt rather foolish.

The pounding sounded again and he winced, putting his hands to his head. He hit the side of his head a little too hard with his golden hand and he grunted, forgetting it was there. Perhaps if he held his head, the pounding would stop. For a few seconds he had peace and quiet. Well….peace wasn't the word. He was having a roaring headache.

The pounding sounded again, and he turned, realizing it was the door. Why were people pounding on his door so much? Didn't they realize he was in no fit position to do anything?

"Go away!" he yelled, at once regretting it. "It's too early in the morning for this!"

The door flung open and in stepped a woman. Well, at least he thought it was a woman. He was too bleary eyed to be certain. He slowly pushed himself up and rested on his bed.

"What did you say to our cousin Magen and Ser Balon?" she demanded.

"Huh?" he asked.

"They both came up to you last night as you returned from your drinking and you talked with them," she was saying to him. "What did they say? And what did you say to them?"

"Who the fuck knows or cares?" he asked, thinking the voice sounded familiar on the woman. Yet he couldn't place the voice. Was he really that drunk? "Why should I tell you?"

"Because I have a right to know!" the voice snapped at him.

His vision was getting a little clearer and now he could make out clearly who she was. Well, not too clearly. Yet he saw the short-cropped hair and the golden color to it. Oh, it was Cersei. Damn, he hoped it was someone he actually cared about.

"Yeah?" he asked, a fresh throb of pain hitting his head, "And I have the right to tell you to fuck off. Just like you've done with everyone else, fucked off on them. What do you think of that?"

The slap hit him hard across the face and he fell backwards on the bed. Usually he could have easily taken her slap or dodged it. But in his state, he was surprised his head hadn't flown off. However, the ceiling was now spinning in all directions.

"I will chalk this up to you being drunk and you didn't mean it," Cersei said after a few seconds of him resting on the bed. "When you are sober, you'll be more reasonable. Actually think before you talk."

"No," Jaime said, holding up his golden hand and allowing the weight of it to help him sit up. "I'm thinking clearly now, more so than ever. Ser Osmund Kettleblack told me all about your whoring. I have been faithful, even trying to see a reason to forgive you for killing my son Tommen. No, you are a bitch, a vengeful cunt who cares for no one but yourself. I will fight this war to stop the Dragon, but beyond that, you can that Mountain to fuck you, because I won't. We are done and over, you stupid cow."

He didn't remember getting hit across the face. All he knew was the next thing he knew, it was nighttime, his head was clearer. He glanced up at the ceiling, wondering what had happened. Slowly the words came to him that he had said. At first he was horrified by what he had had said. Had he really said that? Had he really told his sister to fuck off?

"Yeah," he said, slowly smiling, relief flooding through him as he realized it was finally over. "I did. I finally did it. I am free of her."


	26. Epi 4, Ch 5: Jon

***Jon***

 _I must have been a real fucking idiot to leave Ghost back at Winterfell_ , Jon thought for perhaps the thousandth time since he had departed Castle Black with Bran in wagon seat next to him. Jon marveled at how proficient he was with his arms and how strong his hands were. The second night down from the wall, they had decided to arm wrestle to determine who was to cook. Despite Jon's years at the Wall and beyond it, he had been hard pressed to beat Bran, whose arms were lean and fit.

There had been wild dogs, made savage by the oppression of winter that had followed them. Only vigilance had kept them away from the tasty meat Jon's horse would have offered. Bran was able to touch the minds of the dogs and keep them at bay, another thing that Jon marveled at.

He didn't understand warg magic. Actually, he really didn't understand magic period. He had seen the powers of wargs when he had been in the company of the Free Folk. Orell had been the name of that warg, and his ability to communicate with his hawk had astonished Jon, yet he had been under the impression that warging was limited to one specific animal. Bran however was able to tell him about the consistency of squirrel droppings by warging into them, or how fast ravens could fly by controlling them, or even feel the blood-lust of wolves.

"So I have been wondering," Jon said, flicking the reins to keep the horse moving in a straight line down the snow covered road. "How far back can you see?"

"The farthest back I've ever seen is to the time just before the Long Night of legends," his crippled brother replied. "Although I maybe could see even further back. Not really sure about that though."

"Alright," Jon nodded his head. "So, do you know where the White Walkers come from? Where their birth place is? Why they are so intent on destroying the world of Man?"

"The answer to your first question is yes," Bran answered, "I do indeed know where the White Walkers come from. They are Men….or were Men to be precise. The First Men."

"The First Men?" Jon asked, "So they aren't like another race? They are Men?"

Bran shook his head. "No, not anymore," he explained. "You remember the stories of the First Men showing up in Westeros?"

"Aye. They battled for supremacy of the continent with the Children of the Forest before signing the pact of the Isle of Faces."

"The Men were massacring the Children of the Forest, driving them to extinction," Bran recounted. "The werewood trees, which allowed them to Greensee, were being cut down in great swaths. They took a man, and plunged a dragonglass dagger into his heart. He became the first White Walker, although if he was the first Night King or just an Other; who knows. They did so as a way to combat Man, not realizing that this weapon would attack all living, including their creators."

Jon absorbed all that information in. His tactical mind began conjuring up a scenario where a force of destruction got out of hand. How long would it continue its primary purpose? So, if they were weapons against Man, would they only stop if all the humans were killed?

But the dragonglass was very interesting.

"So the thing that created them kills them too?" Jon asked. It was rhetorical, he didn't expect an answer. "That seems mighty convenient. So what? Does the White Walkers take dragonglass and plunge it into new followers or what?"

Bran chuckled at that. "What makes you think they could pick it up if it's what kills them?" he asked Jon. "No, only the Night King had one shoved in, although whether it's the same one from old or a different one, no one knows. Even I am hard pressed to follow his history."

"Then how are more created?" Jon asked.

"The Night King is able to use ice magic to turn infants into the newest generation of Walkers," Bran said. "If the Long Night comes again, they may be able to use their magic to undo all seven hundred feet of ice of the Wall and turn it against the defenders. I'm no prophet; my gifts only include the present and past, not the future."

As much as the idea of the Wall being turned against the defenders disturbed him, it brought about a different image, just as disturbing. A young and foolish Jon Snow, creeping in the snow after Craster. Following him to a spot where he put his newborn son on the ground. Then the thing appeared in the woods to take the baby, twin blue stars shining in the night. It still gave him chills at night to think about it and he always been weary of the forests north of the Wall after that, especially at night.

"How many are there?" Jon asked.

"Thirty-six that are coming south for the war," Bran said, holding a finger in the air. "Counted them myself."

"Thirty-six? Wasn't there thirty-seven last time?" Jon asked, jesting at just how precise his brother's numbers were.

"Some of them are a bit bigger than last times," Bran said.

"I don't care how big they are!" Jon retorted. He'd kill them all if he could. It was the only way that he could ensure the realms of Man were safe.

"When we go out to the Wall again, I'll get you two more White Walkers, how's that?" Bran snorted in laughter.

"Only if you can talk to snakes," Jon laughed.

The moment of joviality was however quickly over, and somberness set in. If there was indeed thirty-six coming south, that didn't count how many there was left. And considering Craster had said he had ninety-nine sons he had, that was almost an even hundred for the Others. Even if Craster was exaggerating, how many other wildlings had done so? Giving up their babies? There could be as many White Walkers as there was wights!

That was too devastating an idea to even ponder.

"Why can Longclaw kill White Walkers when other swords can't?" Jon asked. Longclaw's wolf tipped hilt was poking out to the side of him, stuck between the wagon tongue and the wagon bed.

"It's the same type of sword used by Azor Ahai," Bran explained. He didn't go too deep in detail, which Jon supposed meant he didn't know much about sword-making. "Perhaps it has something to do with him and the similarity of the weapons. I think it also has something to do with blood magic made to use it."

Jon took all this information into account. Everything he heard expanded the possibilities and gave new combinations too his understanding of the situation. New ways they could possibly combat the Others. If only there was more…..only if there was more time and information.

His thoughts were interrupted by Bran. "Uncle Benjen is still alive," he informed Jon.

"I won't fall for that trick again," Jon said grimly.

Sorrow filled Bran's voice. "It was a cruel trick, for them to send that boy to lure you out of your chambers by using Uncle Benjen's name," he said, shaking his head. "I can't imagine how much it hurt your trust in the Watch. Especially when you saw they had painted the word 'Traitor' on that board."

Jon didn't want to think about. It was hard for him, even months after the fact, that the Night's Watch had turned on him so badly. He could understand them not wanting the wildlings south of the Wall. Millenia of conflict had taught them a way of doing things, and that wasn't one of them. However, if they had felt so strongly and they were going to turn on him, why had they allowed the wildlings through in the first place? Why not keep the gate closed?

"He saved me and Meera from a wight attack, shortly after we left the Three Eyed Raven's cave." Bran told Jon. "The White Walkers ambushed him and his patrol and left him for dead. The Children of the Forest found him, and put a shard of dragonglass into his chest. He's still human, but he's on that fine edge between life and death."

Jon couldn't imagine what it was like to be stuck in a permanent state of limbo. What a curse it must be. He felt that being resurrected was bad enough, but at least he _had_ died. If Bran was true in his words, then Benjen didn't even get that blessing.

* * *

Without a whole host of warriors they were having to travel with, the travel time from the Wall to Winterfell was cut down by a good margin. They shaved a whole day off their travel, even with the snow that was piling higher on the King's Road.

 _It must be_ my _road_ , Jon thought with a smile. He was a King after-all and this was the King's Road.

It was nearing dusk on the sixth day from the Wall when they spotted Winterfells' walls. Other wagons were rolling into Winterfell as they approached, and Jon wondered at that. There were maybe a dozen wagons, and as he was at the end of the line, he could see the canvas that covered the top of the wagons. A wagon left the castle, and as it went down the road to the right, Jon noticed that the canvas was left in a pile on the wagon's bed.

"What is going on?" he asked.

"You could go to the front of the line," Bran said, "You are King and can do basically whatever you want. It'll be faster anyways, as we'll be sitting here for a while. I can drive the wagon into Winterfell."

"You sure?" Jon asked, turning to him.

His younger brother shrugged, causing snow that had accumulated on his shoulder from a snowfall earlier to sluff off his cloak. "It's not like I can go anywhere anyways," he reasoned.

Jon nodded, handing over the reins to Bran, and swinging his legs to the left, dropped to the ground. His hand gripped the hard leather grip of Longclaws hilt and pulled it from the wagon. Uncoiling the crowd belt from around the sheath, he wrapped it around his waist and began moving forward as he belted the strap together and looped it around his front. He walked along the side of the wagons, most of the drivers not recognizing him. The wagons move forward slowly as the wagon in the front pulled in.

"Oi," he called to a driver, stopping next to the front of his wagon. "What's going on here?"

"Haven't ye hard?" the driver asked.

"Heard what?" Jon asked.

"The Lady of Winterfell wan the cities and towns of the Norf to send part of ther food to Winterfell," the driver said.

"Why?" Jon asked, frowning.

"Who ta say?" the scrawny man lifted his hands, showing blackened fingernails and overly scarred hands.

Jon turned and plunged forward, walking through the last hundred or so yards to the Castle gates. Drivers talked amiably with each other or cursed the wait. As he approached the gate, a guard moved forward to stop him.

"Oi!" the rotund guard said, "You wait in line just like everyone else! Hey didn't you hear me?"

Jon turned his fierce gaze on the man. "Are you going to give me commands, sir?" he demanded in a hard voice.

The guards eyes widened as he suddenly realized whom he was speaking to. "Forgive me, Your Grace," he went to one knee. "I did not recognize you."

"Wait!" the driver in the wagon said, leaning over, "Is it really you? King Jon the Bastard? Hero of the Battle of the Bastards?"

"Yes, I am," Jon said without turning to him and walked into Winterfell, the guard still kneeling. How long would the man remain kneeling since he hadn't been bidden to rise? Perhaps he'd return to the spot once night had fully begun to see if the man was still kneeling.

Winterfell was filled with people. They were removing crates of food and bundles of tied wheat and hay off the laden wagons. The drivers leaned next to their wagons, shooting the fat with residents of the capitol of the North. A wagon was finishing being unloaded and they began to work the wagon so it was end up facing the gate. They would move the horses forward, then back, then forward again, each time working at an angle so they'd be able to swing around and pass the other wagons. It was a tight fit, but it could be managed.

Jon soon found Sansa and Brienne, and they were….helping to unload the food. He watched as they grabbed they helped perform the manual labor, something he simply hadn't expected to see Sansa doing. Brienne was one thing; she was as strong as an ox and seemed to relate far more to the masculine gender then the feminine.

Yet Sansa…..she had always cringed at any type of physical labor. So, he moved to one of the carved wooden pillars that held up the upper balcony and walkway and leaned against it, arms crossed. He was rather fascinated in this. The wagon rumbled out of the castle, but he watched as Sansa and Brienne grabbed a large crate between them and lifted, carrying it between them. He saw Sansa's lips open and her teeth grinding as she strained against the load. It didn't look that heavy, yet she wasn't physically strong so any weight would have most likely been laborious to her.

They set the crate down and Sansa look down at her hands, slowly opening and closing her hands by curling her fingers into fists. She pressed her hands together and with a resigned look, she went back to the wagon with Brienne, where they grabbed another crate and lifted it. Jon thought he could spot apples, but he wasn't really sure.

They had just set it down and Sansa stood up to stretch, placing her hands on the small of her back. As she did this, she spotted Jon, leaning against the pillar.

"Jon!" she called out, stepping around the crates and around busy people and running up to him and throwing her arms around him. "I'm glad to see you, half-brother!"

"I'm glad to see you too," he replied, giving her a firm hug. They pulled back and Sansa began to look around.

"Where's Bran?" she asked, "I really want to see him."

Jon pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "He's at the end of the line," he informed her. "He'll be along shortly. He's going to drive the wagon into Winterfell. But, we have to talk."

"Oh?" she asked, sudden concern in her eyes. "Is something wrong with Bran?"

"He's…" Jon looked for the right word. "different. But no, we need to talk about this."

Sansa frowned, confusion in her eyes. "What are you…." she began to ask.

"What are all these wagons doing here unloading food?" Jon asked, waving his hand to encompass all the wagons and all the food. "And this thing about you sending ravens to all the cities and towns in the North asking for food?"

Sansa's eyes went wide and a big smile crossed her face. Evidently whatever it was made her absurdly proud. Like a cat who has caught her mouse. Although Sansa didn't look like a cat at all. No, she had been kissed by fire, appearing more lion than cat, even though they were both cats of a sort.

"Well," she said, holding up a finger, "We are low on food stores. We won't last more than three years at most with the food we have. And that's only for us, that's not counting for any refugees who might flood here, which they are already doing."

"Right," Jon nodded, listening to her every word.

"So, I thought," Sansa continued, eager to share her 'good' idea. "Hey! There is whole towns in the North that can spare us some food! So I sent to all the cities, towns and villages in the North and said, 'If you want to come to Winterfell during the Winter, you'll have to pay up with food to help us. Only ten percent, nothing too strenuous. If you don't send food, you'll have to provide other services when you get here'. These wagons are from Cerwyn; Holdfast will show up in the next few days with three wagons."

Jon didn't like this at all. Not one bit. "Walk with me, Sansa," he said, and taking her by the upper arm, led her around the nearby building and through the courtyard. Sansa would have had trouble keeping up with Jon's strong, determined strides, had she not had longer legs than he did. He led her to the crepts, Littlefinger and Yohn Royce walking past them along with Maester Walken, talking about some trivial matter.

"Can you let go of my arm?" Sansa asked as he pulled her into the entrance. "I can walk very well by myself, thanks."

Jon let go after they had entered about fifteen yards into there. He turned from her and set his hands on his hips and took a few deep breaths. He didn't look at her as he gathered his thoughts and figured the best way to put this.

"You really shouldn't have done that," Jon said.

"Done what?" Sansa asked, "Asking you to let go of my arm?"

"No," Jon shook his head. "Asking the cities of the North to give us of their own stores. We can grow our own food, they can't. What you've done is reverse the problem, with the other cities and towns now being the ones that have to dip into their own stores, cutting into what they could feed themselves."

"This is a good idea Jon!" Sansa replied, disbelief in her voice. "The Greenhouses were destroyed by the Ironborn and while we have repair crews working on it, it'll take months for them to start growing food again. We need this food Jon, I thought you would be pleased with my initiative."

"I grant you it was initiative alright," Jon said, holding up a hand defensively, "Why weren't the greenhouses repaired before though? Why didn't you tell the Boltons when you were one of them they needed to be repaired? Infact, why didn't you tell me?"

"Do you think the Boltons really cared what I thought?" Sansa retorted. "As for you not knowing about the state of the greenhouses, that's your own fault Jon. You were so fixated on this coming war you keep crowing about, that you paid little attention to the state of affairs here. This was a good idea Jon, I have given us a very good cushion so we have more time to really get the greenhouses really producing."

Jon put his fingers on the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. This upcoming war was not going to be a war about locale. No one place was going to be more important, not if the Dead got south of the Wall. Stealing from other cities and holdfasts in the North did nothing but make the other places less capable of feeding themselves as time went by. Normally, he'd have applauded her idea, it wasn't a bad one.

"You should have consulted me before hand," he finally said. "It is a good idea, in a regular winter Sansa. If you had discussed it with me, I could have told you why it wasn't needed this time around. The Long Night has come again, and taking food away only hurts those we are trying to protect."

Sansa looked at him and rolled her eyes. Anger was flaring up inside of her, and Jon saw her cheeks flush. She crossed her arms and worked her cheeks as they ran back and forth across her teeth.

"You are just like Father and Robb," she said angrily. "Not listening to any idea that's not your own. You weren't here Jon, you were off to the Wall without asking me if I wanted to come join you…."

"I did offer you…" Jon began.

"Only after I called you out on it!" Sansa threw her arms in the arm exasperatedly. "I want you to succeed as King, and I don't want you head being swapped out for Ghosts and it being sewn on your body. However, you are being just as pigheaded as they were. But _noooo,_ you don't believe anyone is ideas are good unless you've given it your blessing."

"I have no wish to curb your good ideas, Sansa," Jon argued, surprised by just how angry she was at him. "I just need you to discuss these ideas with me. If they are good, I will fully support them. This food thing though, isn't as good an idea for these circumstances."

Sansa turned on her heel and stormed away. "I'm going to see Bran," she barked at him. "I haven't seen him for years and I missed him more than you! At least _he_ always liked _my_ ideas and didn't think he knew better than everyone else!"

"Sansa!" Jon called out but she refused to listen but stormed off into the cold air.

Jon leaned against a statue of one of the Kings of Winter and put a hand on his face, wiping from his hair line down to his jaw, wrapping the fingers around his beard. Movement to his right, deeper into the crepts caught his attention and turning, he saw Ghost padding up from the dark, his red eyes glowing. Jon held out his hand and Ghost sniffed it, then licked it with his hot, long tongue and walked up to Jon's leg, pressing against it.

"Trouble in paradise, Your Grace?" a voice asked, and Jon turned his head to See Littlefinger looking with a smug smile at him.

 _To be continued in **Episode 5: I am the Storm** , where the War in the South will truly begin._

* * *

 _ **Episode Notes:**_

 _ **-There is a Harry Potter 1 movie reference in the Jon Chapter, if you keep an eye for it, you can spot it!**_

 _ **-Originally, there was no Hound POV chapter planned. The chapters were going to be Jon, Davos, Dany, Sansa and Jaime (not in that order of course). But, I realized that Ghost had not been in any of the last episodes and that it would make no sense to go an entire episode without following up with the Hound being in Winterfell.**_

 _ **-The reason the Hound did not mention Littlefinger holding a dagger to Ned's neck is he assumes that Sansa already knows. This is one thing that the show never really did a good job with, people assuming other people having knowledge that isn't the case. The closest we get to this is Melisandra telling Dany about the King in the North Jon Snow as if they should know about it and Tyrion is like, "WTF?! How did he become King?"**_

 _ **-At long last Daenerys Targaryen has a SADDLE! Say what you will about the**_ **Inheritance Cycle _by Christopher Paolini, but his first book shows the inherent dangers of riding bareback a dragon (such as having the entire layer of skin on the inside of your legs rubbed off). Yet, despite riding these creatures of hard scales, she shows no ill-effects. So, you're saying her legs are either rock hard on the inside, dragon scales are actually much softer, or that she is also immune to being rubbed raw as she is with fire._**

 ** _-I originally planned Magen Lannister to also be with Jaime during the whole "Disgraced Guards having a drink" segment of Jaime's chapter and he was going to declare he wasn't going to fight for the Lannisters anymore but go to the North to serve Jon Snow to spite Cersei for having dismissed him after the Summer Islands fiasco. However, there was no realistic way that would have worked with a whole bunch of men loyal to the Lannisters._**

 ** _-Last thing I'll address in these notes is Tysha. Originally, Tysha wasn't planned to be there, instead it was going to be just a regular whore and he was going to talk with this whore after banging her especially hard about how he was feeling damn cranky about the whole "burning the prisoners" from the last episode. However, it was a decision on the fly and I thought it would be fun to have him actually disbelieving Tysha's version of events, especially since in the books, he buys Jaime's version of events (which are the exact same) lock, stock and barrel. It was also a return to form for Tyrion. Sure, Tyrion was having troubles after Shaye's betrayal with women, but to completely make him celibate? Nah...he'd get back on the horse sooner or later (no pun intended)._**


	27. Epi 5: I am the Storm, Ch 1: Euron

**Episode 5: I am the Storm**

 ***Euron***

The _Silence_ bobbed gently in the water, rising and falling with each gentle tide. Euron really enjoyed the bobbing of the deck. It made the whole ship feel like a woman who was moaning with pleasure at his thrusts of his long sword. He smiled at the image and jumped down the short staircase that led from the helm of the ship to the deck down below, landing with the grace of a cat.

What made his ship especially pleasurable was the utter lack of voices on his ship. All his crew had their tongues removed, so he could hear what the Drowned God had in store for him. As much as he did believe he was the Drowned God, the first storm and the last, he knew there was that damned _other_ Drowned God that was out there. The one everyone kept getting drowned because of. Once people understood whom the real deal was, they'd be tearing out their own tongues to worship him.

"Your Grace," a deep rumbling voice said.

 _Shit, I forgot about you,_ Euron thought with a roll of the eyes. He turned on his heel to look at the man who had stepped up behind them.

"My dear Moqorro," Euron addressed him. "I wonder if the Red God would be willing to talk to you if you couldn't speak."

"Well," the dark-skinned Priest with his long grey hair and massive red tattoos on his face shrugged. "I think there would be a…."

"I forgot, I don't give a shit," he interrupted him while flipping up his hand at the same time, causing the priest to back-peddle or else get clipped on his wide nose. "What I do give a shit for is where exactly is my Yara. Where is my Yara? I hear she like the tongue instead of the cock. She's never had mine, so how can she really know what she wants, eh?"

At the same time he said that, he stiffened the fingers on his hands. He also swung downwards, slanting them and pointing them so they were pointing where his cock was. Moqorro raised an eyebrow, disapproval of the implied incest full on his face.

"Do you know what happened to the last priests that were on my ship?" Euron asked him, plopping himself on the side-railing of the ship. He wrapped his arm around the rope of the rope ladder that ran up to the crows nest above, anchoring himself.

"I don't," the Red Priest admitted in his rich voice.

"It's quiet a lovely story, one you will find most fascinating," he said, a smile spreading across his face, giving him a look of a cat whose mouth was being stretched back by his human. "I was pillaging and raping along the upper coast of Essos. It's simply amazing how those cities never learned to hide their women and valuables better. Anyway, we broke into the temple for the Red God there. There were four priests in there, all women except the head priest, who was a fat old man. I mean, there was so much to him that I couldn't help but wonder why no one stuck a needle into him to relieve all the air inside of him, ya'know."

"I don't….."

Euron lifted two fingers and put it on the other man's thick lips and shushed him. He pointed to himself with the index finger of the hand still wrapped around the rigging, which came in handy as the ship more violently rose up and down after a particularly harsh dip in the sea.

"As I was saying," he continued, moving his fingers in a slow, wide circle around the priest's mouth, feeling every imperfection in the other man's skin. "So we did what any good Iron Born would do. We kidnapped the priests and stuck them in the hold. It's amazing how much rape the human body can endure, let me just say. The stamina on those women to take every cock on this ship left me with the impression that this R'hollor fellow might just be worth his salt. And even at the end, the fat old man still could speak to me like I was some damned commoner. You must respect a man that even after seeing that much shit, can still give you shit."

A cruel smile started to cross his face. The memory of what happened next always gave him very good feelings. He would get hard at nights when he thought about it. He finally withdrew his fingers from Moqorro's mouth and placed his hand on his knee.

"It took my cook six hours to fully cut the man down to servable portion sizes," Euron recounted. "We served them to the priestesses. Oh, at first they refused, lasting three days without food or water, because we wouldn't feed or give them drink until they ate his flesh. Trust me, sex speeds up one's desire for thirst, and using them on a daily basis broke down their resistance."

Euron dropped to deck and stepped up to the Red Priest, placed a hand on his shoulder and led him over the busy deck. His crew gave them a wide berth; no _him_ a wide berth. They knew his temperament, they knew he was a man not to be trifled with.

"Now," Euron said, continuing as if he were the ultimate kindest man in the world. "I do respect your Red God. He is one of the few that actually does stuff and I have seen his power. However, you are no God, my good man. No, you are a lowly mortal, just like the rest of them. Now, do you know why I told you that story?"

Moqorro had a look of utter disgust on his face from what he had heard. Euron gave the black man his time to gather himself. Not everyone could appreciate the beauty of utter brutality. When he had the Iron Throne and had deposed that cunt from the throne by strangling her on their wedding night, his vision of the natural order of things would be accepted by all. Unless they wished to be strapped to the prow of his ships, naked, with their genitalia shorn off them and their tongues removed.

"To show how you treat those who don't show you respect," the Red Priest responded, his red robes billowing in the breeze.

"Close," Euron said, patting him on the shoulder. "It's to state the fact that when I ask a question, I expect it to be answered promptly. So, I will ask one more time. _Where. Is. my. Yara?_ "

"Oh!" Moqorro replied, comprehension dawning on his face. "I thought that it was rhetorical. Well, I looked in the flames and I saw her location. She's at Dragonstone, leading the blockade of King's Landing."

"And little Theon?" the Crows-Eye asked. "Where is he?"

"Ferrying troops to the mainland further south."

"Pity," Euron said with a pout. "I was really hoping he would enjoy what I will do to my Yara."

With that, he spun around and ran up the railway to the helm. A sailor was humming to himself, the thick armed man at the wheel. Euron didn't recognize the tune, must have been something the man picked up in a brothel. The real question was, did he pay gold for his short sword to go into the well-used sheath of the whore, or did he pay the iron price?

"How much longer, my dear sir, until we get to Oldtown?" he asked the mute. The mute held up three fingers, the fingers curled so only the first joints were standing up. That was the sign Euron had taught all his mutes. Holding a finger up to the first joint with the rest of them curled signified hours. A full finger was a day. So, it'd take three hours to reach Oldtown. Euron slapped the sailor on the ass and was impressed by how hard it was.

Three hours, and then he'd be able to really begin to impress people.

* * *

The _Silence_ slid into the harbor at Old Town, dozens of ships lined up at piers. Carts were being loaded onto the docked ships, and Euron waited until the gangplank was run out. Then he signaled to his First Mate and three other Iron Born and they strode down the gangplank, onto the pier. While many men were jarred by the difference between solid ground and the swaying of the ships, he was not.

No, the Drowned God was able to endure any change of any size. He looked around at all the bored crews on their ships around him, many eyes turned to see whom this newcomer was. A particularly young lad, upon seeing him, climbed up and sat on the railing of the boy's ship, looking with wide eyes at him. Euron bowed to him, sweeping his arms out wide.

"Who you be?" a voice called out to him, and he turned to see a short man with thin, wiry grey hair walking up to him. The man had brown robes with tassels that fell off the end. "There be a toll for you to pay to dock."

"And who are you?" Euron asked, turning the force of his insane gaze down at the man who was a full-headed shorter than he was.

The man puffed himself up importantly. "I is the harbor master here!" the man boasted.

"Then you aren't the man I'm looking for," he dismissed him with a casual wave. "I'm looking for the Lord Commander of this fine fleet of ships that are docked here."

"That be Balon Uplands,' the harbor master said, "He be at the end of the pier. The man with the fat nose, there. But I must insist that you pay the toll!"

Euron's hand curled into a fist and he slammed it hard from the side right into the man's windpipe. The Harbor Master gagged as he grabbed his crushed windpipe and slowly collapsed to his knees, trying to breath. It would do no good. The punch was utterly ruined the man's ability to breath and without looking down at the man, who was no doubt purpling right now as he fought for air that wouldn't come, he stepped forward and walked down the pier.

His mutes followed close behind him as his footsteps resounded with the sound of leather iron-shorned soles on the wooden deck. It had been polished by the feet of thousands of men going to and from their ships over the many long years it had been there. The history of the place was lost on Euron though. The only history he cared for was the one he'd blaze in his lifetime.

The closer he got to Balon Uphill, whom even from his distance he could tell whom he was. The man did have an awfully large nose. Euron was certain that the Gods did not intend for men to have noses as long as this man. Anyway, the closer he got, the more clearly he could hear the words the man was speaking and of those around him.

"….are we expected to get all this gold to King's Landing?"

"Yeah, ya do know there is a massive blockade, don't ya Uphill?"

"…..this is a Gods awful idea."

"Why didn't they just send it overland?"

"Look, gentlemen, I know and understand all your concerns," the long-nosed man said, his hair like cottonwood. "I have many of the same too. Yet we have our orders. We have to take them oversea to King's Landing. All the wagons of the Reach are being used to collect all the crops as part of the tribute to Queen Cersei."

"Who cares about dat blond-haired bitch anywho?" one of the Captains, a rail-thin man with pimples on his face demanded. "I heard dey paraded her naked through King's Landing. Are we really suppose ta take her seriously?"

"I would be very careful about what I would say about her," Euron interjected himself into their conversation. "She will be my bride one day, and if you are not careful, I'll serve your head to all the guests on our wedding day."

"A drunkard if there ever was one!" one of the other captains called out with a laugh. "Who are you?"

"King Euron Greyjoy of the Iron Islands and the Salt Throne."

All joviality among the men died as they suddenly realized whom this man was. One of the captains took two steps involuntarily backwards. Euron's name was one of whispered fear among other captains of Westeros. A ghost, a bloody specter who would attack when everything was silent.

"What can we do for you, Your Grace?" Uphill asked, one of the few whom didn't seem intimidated by the most vicious of the Iron Born.

"I hear you have a problem," Euron proclaimed, putting his hands on his hips. "Tell me if I am correct with each point, Lord Commander Uphill. Although why they gave you the title Lord Commander shows how little the Reach actually understands sea matters, for it should be Fleet Commander. Anywho, you have to get gold to King's Landing."

"That is correct," Uphill acknowledged.

"But there is a blockade preventing you from actually getting to King's Landing."

"Correct."

"You'd run the blockade, I'm sure, but there is what, almost a thousand ships in the blockading force?"

"It would be suicide," Uphill agreed. "We are sailors, not warriors. We are merchant ships, each and every one of us. We have guards, yes, but not nearly enough to fight off a thousand ships."

"Luckily for you," Euron said, "I can help you."

The captains seemed eager to hear what he had to offer. The Iron Born were fierce warriors, but he could tell there was some doubt in their minds. Sure, he was Iron Born, but what could he possibly do to give them the upper-hand in any engagement against a fleet that large?

"I have three-hundred battle-ready ships waiting for us at the mouth of the Whispering Sound," he informed them, referring to the name of the gulf that connected Old Town to the Sunset Sea. "From there, you will follow us through the Redwyn Straits and within a week, we will be at Blackwater Bay. My ships will break the blockade, then you can deliver the gold to the Queen."

A few men chuckled at what he proposed and even Uphill gave an appreciative smile. Euron was fixated though on the man's nose. He wouldn't even need a dagger to stab anyone, all he'd need to do is use his nose!

"Three hundred against a thousand?" the rail-thin boy asked. "I know de Iron Born are tough, but you're still outnumbered."

Euron smiled. "Don't worry, my long nosed one," Euron said, tweaking the Lord Commander's nose. "It won't nearly be all that bad. You'll see. And besides…." He added in a tone of joviality that in no way veiled the seriousness of the implications, "do you really want Queen Cersei to know you failed her? We all know what she does to those who fail her and she deems as enemies."

The looks on all their faces informed him that indeed, yes they had. It was really hard to have not heard about what happened at the Great Sept of Baelor. It was a sacrilege that struck deep into the heart of every devote member of the Faith of the Seven. It also had dealt such a cruel blow to House Tyrell, and started this new war.

"Lovely," Euron replied with a bright smile. "We will restock on supplies and met you at the mouth of the Sound by nightfall. Meanwhile, I have three whores I need to visit in my hold."


	28. Epi 5, Ch 2: Davos

***Davos***

"What do you think, Ser Davos?" The guard said, stepping up to his side. "Does it look the same?"

Davos' eyes scanned the region of Dragonstone, the ship gently pulling closer to it, riding the bobbing rolling ocean waves like a feather on the wind. The sky was hazy this morning, and the sun seemed to be hiding, even though there were no clouds in the sky.

"It still the same," he replied with a shrug, "The amount of ships though is an entirely different matter."

That was true enough. Hundreds of ships lay at anchor, stretching across the vast expanse of the mouth of Blackwater Bay. The Rose of Highgarden, the banners of the Essoses', the angry Kraken and the three-headed Targaryen dragon all sat side by side, not quite close enough to touch but close enough that ships couldn't slip between them. Unless they were a very skinny boat.

Their own ship was a ninety-foot-long ship named the _Bastard of Winterfell._ It was one of the few original Northern ships that hadn't been part of Stannis' fleet. Stannis' fleet had been incorporated into the northern military after that King's defeat. This ship had been named for Jon Snow after his victory at Winterfell. It was a good ship, with a captain who was a wily and cunning captain, having outrun pirates, Iron Born, Lannister and every other ship type of the known world.

"I'll be glad to get off this boat," the guard said. "Man was no meant to be off solid ground."

It had taken them four days to travel down to Dragonstone from White Harbor. Favorable winds had pushed them along at a good steady pace. Not an overly aggressive one, but enough to cut down the travel time down by a full day. Yet that short time had not been short enough for the man, whose beard had become encrusted with bits of vomit that hadn't been washed out fully.

"Ship."

"Wot?"

"This is a ship, not a boat," Davos corrected the other man.

The guard frowned, not quiet getting what Davos was getting at. "Is there a difference?" he asked.

"By all the Gods Old and New!" Davos threw up his hands. "Is there a difference? A boat is small, can barely fit a couple of people. A ship is large, has sails and can hold a boat."

The guard shrugged his shoulders. The distinction was lost on him. Davos rolled his eyes. Out of all the guards that could have volunteered to come with him, why had it been two twins who couldn't appreciate the difference between boats and ships. Indeed, they were both identical twins, the only distinction between the two men being one had a scar that ran down the side of his face from the edge of his brow down to his chin. The two men were from the village of Tower in Hornwood.

Timmen and Gimmen were their names. The womb of their mother must have been cursed to have children with such idiotic names.

"Ship ahoy! Coming from starboard!"

Davos turned his eyes to see one of the ship from the blockade begin to back up towards them, oars rowing them backwards. The ship did a clumsy right turn as they backed and then began to move towards them. As they did so, the captain called out to the Northern ship with a brass trumpet which could project their voice.

" _'Ello! Who is it?_ "

The captain of the ship stepped up and called back with his own trumpet, a battered piece of brass that had seen better days. Davos looked over the man and noted the two fingers missing on his right hand. The man was a fellow smuggler alright! He had also been caught by Stannis, but his lack of fewer digits counted for his lesser amount of crimes.

"It is I, Arthur, Captain of the _Bastard of Winterfell_ ," the Captain announced them, "I bring the Hand of King Snow to talk with Queen Daenerys Targaryen."

 _"We already got one!"_

 _We already got one?_ Davos thought to himself. _What sheep bollocks in sea salt gravy was the man going on about?_

"Did he say wot I think he said?" Timmen asked.

"He said they already got one," Davos repeated. Timmen looked as perplexed as Davos felt. The old sea dog wondered if they didn't understand what was being said.

"We are proceeding to Dragonstone to talk with your lord and master," Captain Arthur responded.

 _"No! I make wind in your general direction! Your father was a hamster and your mother smelt of elderberries!"_

"Wot in the name of all the Gods old and new is a hamster?" Timmen asked.

Davos looked at the banner. They were from Mereen. Maybe it was an animal over there? His mind conjured up an image of what might have been a hamster. He got an image of a horse with massive fangs and instead of hooves, it had lion paws with three-inch-wide claws.

A very nasty image indeed.

"Just ignore them," Davos said, "They'll not do anything, Captain."

Arthur turned and muttered curses a plenty as he gave the order to keep going. And indeed, the ship did nothing, but keep taunting them. At one point, they began to throw buckets full of shit at the _Bastard of Winterfell._ Captain Arthur really wanted to fight the other ship, which after much time they discovered it was called the _Castle of Aarrgh._ Just so that way they could shut up the Captain, which they could see clearly now had a silly mustache on-top of his outrageous mustache.

Yet cooler heads prevailed, and soon enough, Davos was on a longboat headed to Dragonstone. Several warriors were waiting for them on the shore, including a dwarf and a woman. All the while, the Captain, who called himself French, was shouting still taunts at them.

"I really hope someone drives a sword through that man's shit hole and out his mouth," Gimmen was grumbling as the Captain hurled yet _another_ taunt at them.

"Aye," Davos nodded his head.

Soon, they were off the longboard and the warriors, Dothraki with long black braids and fierce black eyes, grabbed the boat and took off with it, marching it away. Davos was at once troubled as he watched it being marched off. As much as he was all for precaution, was it really necessary to take his boat?

"Ser Davos Seaworth," the Imp said. "Welcome to Dragonstone. We are surprised you are alone. Did you not convince Jon Snow of the importance of coming to see the Queen?"

"Why would he do that?" Davos asked, rubbing his hands together. "Also, he is King. No, he might not have dragons but his blood is still royal and a far more ancient one of Westeros then Daenerys Targaryen, whose bloodline is mostly Essosian. So, if we wish to be technical about it, he would be King Jon. Or perhaps King Snow. Not sure what is grammatically correct, or course."

Tyrion Lannister looked a little uncomfortable. "This would have gone much smoother if he had shown up, I think," Tyrion said with a shuffling of his feet. "Anyways, this is Missandei of the Island of Naarth."

"Mi'lady," Davos inclined his head towards the woman, a slender woman with the most outrageously curly hair he'd ever seen. _How in the name of the Stranger does her head keep from falling off?_

"Lord Davos," she inclined her head. "In order to meet with Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, you will need to hand over your weapons. The Queen will not be greeted by armed guests. I hope you understand."

Davos was not keen to handing over his sword. No, he wasn't a warrior, but he felt much better knowing his sword was at hand. He also didn't like the implications. His method of transport off the island to the _Bastard of Winterfell_ was gone, and now they wanted them to disarm. Was this a greeting or a potential kidnapping?

"I don't like this," Timmen voiced his opinion low enough that only Davos could hear clearly.

"Aye," one of the rowers who had come from the ship agreed. "Something is off."

"Now, now," Davos chided them, "We are guests here, after all. If a farmer in his cottage was to say the same, we'd need to respect his wishes."

Although he felt just as similarly as these men did, he still unbuckled his sword and handed it over to a Dothraki warrior, leaned muscled with a beard and braids that ran down to his navel. Davos knew enough about Dothraki culture to tell that this man must have been a fierce warrior to have so much hair.

"Very good," Tyrion said, still seeming to not be truly at ease. "Let's go see the Mother of Dragons. And hopefully the absence of Jon Snow….I mean, King Jon, will not totally fuck everything up."

* * *

The last time he had been in the throne room in Dragonstone, Davos had walked in on a disturbing scene. Stannis had Melisandre spread across the floor, shoving his sword into her sheath. The thought of that Red Witch made Davos' blood boil. Yes, he had at times imagined himself doing something similar to Melisandre, no disrespect to his wife. Melisandre had even called him out on it once. Not anymore though. Now all he wanted to do was drive a dagger into her burning witch's heart.

"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn, Rightful Queen of the Andals, First Men and the Rhoynar. Breaker of Chains, the Mother of Dragons. The Great Khaleesi of the Grass Sea. The rightful ruler of the Iron Throne. Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. The Lady of Dragonstone."

Missandei said all of that while standing next to Daenerys Targaryen. By all the Gods, Davos couldn't believe what he saw! She was….a _child!_ She couldn't have been much more than her twentieth name-day. To have that many titles at such a young age…..it spoke of a need to dazzle people with what she had.

"Your Grace," Davos inclined his head. "I am Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King of the North, Jon Snow."

"Welcome to Dragonstone, my lord," Daenerys said, her voice carrying surprisingly well in the throne room. It was cavernous; legend held that it had been built so dragons could fit inside. Davos didn't know it that was true. "I was expecting Lord Snow. Your raven stated that he would be in attendance as well."

"Would you have seen me if I had said that a lowly Hand was coming?" Davos asked.

Daenerys looked at him with an appraising glance. For a second he thought perhaps he had overstepped his boundary. Yet it was for naught. She gave a small smile.

"Probably not," she agreed. "So, what does Lord Snow…."

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Davos held up his hand. How many times was he going to have to correct people on Jon Snow's title? "I know I have a Flea Bottom accent and it can be hard to understand my words. Yet he is King in the North, so it would be King Jon or King Snow. Whichever is more grammatically correct."

Daenerys had an amused smile that flickered on her face. "Forgive me, but I don't think I will call him that," she responded. "He doesn't even have the decency to arrive himself to bend the knee. Why would I call him King Jon if he doesn't even have the courtesy of surrendering the North in person?"

Davos frowned and turned to the guard standing next to him. Gimmen turned an angry look at Davos. It spoke volumes that the man believed he had been duped. Gimmen had not sailed clear to Dragonstone to bend the knee to no bitch. No matter how many titles she bore.

"Bend the Knee?" Davos asked, frowning. "No, Your Grace. I'm not here to bend the knee. Nor is my King. We were told you were seeking alliances."

"Yes," Daenerys said, "I am seeking alliances. Alliances with those who bend the knee and acknowledge my claim." An uncomfortable silence filled the throne room as both Davos and Daenerys came to a sudden realization that they were having two entirely different conversations. Slowly the Queen asked, "Did I not make it clear in my raven that was my condition? I wanted the North to bend the knee and rejoin the fold?"

"No, Your Grace," he said, and reaching inside a pocket, pulled out the scroll. "I have the scroll here and nothing on there says anything about bending the knee. It only says you wish to create an alliance with the King of the North."

Daenerys nodded to one of the Unsullied guards who flanked the throne. He approached Davos, reversed the hand that gripped his spear and taking the piece of parchment from his hand, turned smartly on his heel and approached his queen. He inclined his head as he handed the scroll to the Mother of Dragons. She took it and scanned the words that were written.

Davos glanced at Tyrion, and saw he was squirming uncomfortably. As he watched the man, who was trying his best not to glance sideways at the throne, it suddenly dawned on him. The half-man had not written what his Queen had commanded him! He had changed the damned message!

It was made even more clear as Daenerys lowered the parchment and turned a scolding glare at Tyrion. She didn't say anything, she didn't have to with her glare alone doing all the talking.

"The Northerners are a proud people!" Tyrion broke after a few mere seconds. "I changed the message because otherwise they would have dismissed it out of hand. We need allies, Your Grace, and if it requires a little bit of diplomacy, then that's what we have to do!"

"If that is the case," Daenerys said, rising to her feet, "Then there is nothing to discuss. You will leave Dragonstone at once and return to your master with my actual words. Jon Snow is to bend the knee or I will label him a usurper and I will lay low his towns and villages until he bends the knee."

"Do you think you're the first King or Queen who has threatened to burn people alive and carried out the threat?" Davos asked. "No, Your Grace. I served Stannis Baratheon, and he burned people at the stake left and right. But he refused allies unless they bent the knee, and it cost him the war and his life in the end."

"Valar Morghulis," Daenerys replied, crossing her arms in front of her, "Do you know what that means, Ser Davos? It means all men must die. Yet I am not a man, as I'm sure you could tell just by looking. I have stepped through fire and been unburnt. I turned stone dragon eggs into eggs that hatched the first dragons in hundreds of years. I have become a goddess to the Dothraki, who crossed the sea because I said so. Do not presume to place me in the same category as the brother of the man who murdered my older brother and stole my family's throne."

"And while you fight this petty war in the south," Davos argued, not willing to leave until he got what he needed out. "Jon Snow fights a real threat. The White Walkers are coming, Your Grace, leading the Army of the Dead behind them. If they breach the Wall, they will turn the entire continent of Westeros into a graveyard. Then that ugly chair in King's Landing will not matter anymore."

Daenerys suppressed a chuckle. Missandei looked confused, as if she didn't understand what he was talking about. Only Tyrion looked worried, as if he might actually give this more credence.

"I am sorry," she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. "I have no time for grumpkins and snarks. A real war is about to be unleashed. Let Jon Snow deal with old wives tales while I deal with reality. Then, I will show him true power. Not this delusional thing he thinks is power."

"Your Grace…." Tyrion began but Daenerys turned her steely gaze on him. It foretold a scolding the likes of which had never be seen.

"Jon Snow wasn't chosen to be King because of a birthright!" Davos snapped, his anger getting the best of him. "He is a bastard who has no right! He was chosen by the high lord sons of bitches because of whom he is. He went beyond the Wall and fought the White Walkers and their Army of the Dead at multiple locations! He took a knife to the heart was raised from the dead, for all the Gods sakes! I'd say that's far more impressive than being unburned by fire, Your Grace. You need to go North and fight the dead, not the living!"

"Escort him out of here," Daenerys said, and two Dothraki warriors grabbed both him and Gimmen by the arms and led them forcibly out of the throne room.


	29. Epi 5, Ch 3: Sam

***Sam***

Gilly collapsed onto his body, breathing heavily. Sweat made both of their bodies slick and sticky to the touch, but Same didn't mind. He had once told Gren at Craster's Keep that he liked seeing women walk away, implying that he was an ass man and would enjoy taking women from the rear. Yet, he found Gren's statement that the front was far more intriguing. Gilly's perky breasts now pressed against his own hairy chest, the two nipples like fingers poking his skin.

"Wow, you're getting much better Sam," Gilly breathed in his ear.

"I've had a good teacher," he admitted, to which he was rewarded by a nibble on his ear, giving him another thrill of excitement.

He wished he could stay there all day, but that simply wasn't going to be the case. With a gentle nudge, he nudged her off him and swinging his legs around, put them on the cold floor of their small apartment. He had heard that word the other day from a lesson being taught by Archmaester Janes, whose focus was on consutruction and buildings. According to him, any building with multiple living quarters were called 'apartment buildings' and the individual living spaces were 'apartments'. Sam had never heard that term before, but somehow it seemed appropriate.

"When will you be back?" Gilly asked, laying as naked as the day she was born on their bed, laying on her front with her shapely ass in the air. "Are you going to be back before little Sam falls asleep?"

"Right….." Sam said, flushing. They had carried out sex while Little Sam had played in the corner, absolutely oblivious that his mother was being literally screwed over. He seemed not to have even noticed as Gilly had screamed in sheer ecstasy. "I'm really not sure. Archmaester Ebrose has me on scroll collection duty the rest of the day. Me and Manual are both taking opposite ends of the Citadel and working towards the middle. We're to collect the scrolls and put them away in main library. You remember Manual? He's that funny little Dornishman."

"Wouldn't you rather have me collecting your scroll Sam and put it in my main library?" she asked, giving a toothy mischievous grin.

"Oh my," Sam's face must have been scarlet by now. Gilly had a wicked tongue at times.

He turned and splashed water over his face, and taking a cloth he wiped himself down. Once he felt significantly less stinky, he began to pull on his breeches and maester robes. As he did so, he looked at Gilly. He remembered her being a completely terrified girl, shy, begging for help of strangers. Now, she was more fit, better fed, looking healthy, by far than with Craster.

 _When was the first moment I loved you?_ He wondered to himself. _Was it when you asked me to sing a song around the campfire? Was it when she called me a wizard? Or was it when she had begged him not to take her to Mole's Town, preferring being surrounded by a hundred sex-deprived men than with other women?_

With gentleness he put a hand on her well-shaped ass and squeezed gently, and with the other hand brushed aside her coppery locks for her face and gave her a kiss on her forehead. He pulled back, and she gave him a bemused smile.

"What was that for?" she asked.

"I love you, Gilly," he replied, "Do I need another reason?"

"Why Sam," she poked him in his stomach. "I believe that's the first time you've ever said that."

"No it's not."

"Yes, I think it is."

"No!" he argued, "I have to have said it loads of times before!"

"Sticking your massive scroll in my library doesn't count."

* * *

 _I wish I was doing that more that this_.

That thought passed his mind for perhaps the thousandth time. He picked up a large scroll, nearly a foot thick which had been left on a table. Not only was he supposed to collect all the scrolls and books, he was also supposed to make sure that they were rolled up so that the title was sticking firmly out.

 _A History of the Concubines of King Aegon II by Maester Doogle._ Who would want to know about that? This was perhaps the seventieth scroll he had so far collected, along with three books. And he was only perhaps only five done in the entire Citadel. He only hoped that Manual was making better progress. His own cart could hold only a few more, then he'd have to go make his way to the library and deposit these scroll in the correct locations. It would not do to have a _Study of Dragon Anatomy_ with _The History of the Last Seven Winters._

"Good lad!" a maester said, coming from the side. Sam had been so 'enraptured' by his task he had failed to take notice of him. "Take this with you. I have too important of business in this part of the Citadel to make the trip."

With that, he dropped a heavy book carelessly on the pile of scrolls. Sam lunged for the book, pulling it out. Yet it was too late. Several were flattened, and one scroll with a wooden roller had been bent. Sam cursed to himself, although he did not speak aloud. The cart was split into two sections. The upper section was for scrolls and the bottom section was for books.

Without checking the title, he shoved it into the book section without a second glance. Back and forth he made the trip through the Citadel. Only twice during this time had he seen Manual, who was cursing that someone had vomited on a leather covered book and hadn't had the decency to clean it.

He was making his last trip, several hours into the affair, when he entered a room filled with archmaesters. They were having a pretty late discussion. Sam didn't listen in, too busy doing this rather ridiculous task. Although it was hard to completely ignore what they were saying.

"….trust me," one of them was saying, "We can deal with the dragons as we did of old. All we need to do is wait for Daenerys Targaryen to get on the throne. Then, it wouldn't be hard to poison them."

"That's not what troubles me most about the whole situation," another one put in. "It's the fact that instead of focusing on preparations for the Winter, we now have a full-scale war about to commence. The Kingdoms were already ravaged by the War of the Five Kings, now we have Dorne and the Reach in bitter conflict with the Lannisters and Targaryen loyalists."

"I've heard the Reach has switched sides and are now working with the Lannisters," a third put in. "They killed Lady Olenna Tyrell and her two last grandsons. House Tyrell has been completely wiped off the map, and Randall Tarly is now Warden of the Reach."

"Randall Tarly?" the second one put in. "What makes you think so?"

That last perked up Sam's ears. He turned to the group and without thinking about his position, he interjected himself.

"Wait!" he said. The group turned to him, annoyance in their eyes at being interrupted. "I'm sorry, but you said Randall Tarly is now Warden of the Reach?"

"What is it to you?" The first one asked, giving a disapproving glare at Sam.

"I'm Samwell Tarly," he told them, "He's my father."

Those words had an effect on the group. Instead of being annoyed, sudden comprehension dawned and they weren't so hostile towards him. The first two archmaester returned to the fire that was crackling merrily in the room.

"So, the reports I've heard state," the third archmaester, a man with jet black hair and a short mustache said. "In return for killing off the Tyrell's and plundering Highgarden for Queen Cersei, he was promised the Wardenship."

Sam pondered that. Randall Tarly had always been very angry at the fact that House Tyrell didn't get the position of Warden of the Reach after the Targaryen conquest. He had been especially angry at Robert Baratheon when he hadn't given Randall the position, despite his clear leadership abilities. When Sam had pointed out that defeating the King in battle didn't exactly win him any favors, Randall had backhanded him so hard, that Sam had required ministrations to fix his jaw.

"I'm sorry, but we are in the middle of a discussion here, Tarly," the archmaester pointed out. "So if you could finish whatever it was you were doing in here, it would be appreciated."

"Of course," Sam replied, and collected books from off the large table in middle of the room. _Legends of the Long Night._ Sam rolled his eyes and put it in the book shelf. He continued collecting scrolls and books, varying in subject from matters of body, mind, and history.

His time as a maester was being wasted. Jon had sent him for a single purpose. To discover all he could about ways to fight the White Walkers. To this point in time, he had only discovered that ironically, there was dragonglass on Dragonstone. He really hoped that that bit of information helped. No, instead he was being forced to collect books, like the one he was picking up right now _A Dance of Dragons_. Or this other scroll he was retrieving from a chair, _Lessons to be Learned from the Disease Called Greyscale._ Who gave a fuck or two shits about _Chronicles of the Targaryen Dynasty_ or the _Complete Set of the Letters of the Last Targaryens?_

He wheeled the cart into the library, the squeaky wheel seeming to be laughing at him. 'Fool!' it seemed to be cackling, 'No one cares about White Walkers or the Army of the Dead.' That seemed true enough. No one seemed to want to confront the possibility of something like this actually happening. He replaced the scrolls and books in their rightful places, but at long last, he was down to two books. _Legends of the Long Night_ and _The Story of the Night's King._ He noted the difference in these books. The outline of the books were painted in a light red. Signifying they were supposed to be in the restricted section.

So, he walked over to the restricted section. It was firmly locked, and no one was inside. _Shit! The one time I have a legitimate excuse to get into the restricted section of the library, and I can't even get the books in there! Gods damn it!_

The other book cart had already been parked, signaling that Manual was already done for the night. Perhaps if Sam just slid them onto the ground and left them, then the maesters would put them away in the morning. It was late at night, a new moon in the sky so no light was filtering into the Citadel's windows except for starlight.

They fit well enough into the bars and he stacked them on the other side. Letting out a deep breath, he turned and began to leave the library. He bemoaned how close he had been to the restricted section. The rows passed him by.

"Jon will kill me!" he muttered aloud to himself. "So close to where the knowledge of the Long Night….." Sudden realization hit him like a thunderclap and he slapped himself on the forehead. "Think Sam! You are an idiot!"

With that, he sprinted back to the restricted section. Please let no one have removed the books! As he rounded the corner, he saw the books still on the floor. Praise be to any God that was listening to him. Reaching in, he grabbed the books.

"Tarly?" a voice asked him, and he turned, to see Archmaester Ebrose standing behind him. "What are you doing?"

"I dropped some books in here by accident," Sam replied, begging silently to all the Gods, Old and New, that Ebrose wouldn't ask too closely. "They aren't actually supposed to be here, but in another section."

"Foolish Tarly," the old man shook his head and stepped up by his side. "Foolish indeed. You should really work on not being so air-headed. We have brains to…..Tarly? Why are you trying to remove restricted books from the library?"

"Restricted?" Sam asked with a nervous laugh. "No, no. They aren't restricted. They belong in the History portion."

"I can see the red paint on the covers borders."

"You must be seeing things," Sam replied with a smile and a shrug. He almost had the book out…..almost! A sharp jolt of pain shot across his wrist as Ebrose whacked him with a slender wooden stick. The book dropped to the floor…..on the wrong side of the door.

"You can't be taking books from the restricted section," Ebrose said, standing up and unlocking the door with a large ring. "They are only meant for maesters. How many times must we tell you before you finally understand?"

Sam was rubbing his elbow. The door swung open, and Ebrose stepped through. Suddenly realizing that he had a chance to actually get in and wrestle control of the books away from him, Sam jumped to his feet and scrambled to grab the bars of the door. But Ebrose was too quick. He closed the door and locked it from the inside.

"We are all going to die without the knowledge in here!" Sam shouted, his voice angry and distressed. "You want to kill Daenerys Targaryens dragons, who could do a ton of damage to the Army of the Dead. And you are still denying me the chance to research what the Lord Commander…..no, the King in the North himself asked me to come here to study! Why?"

"There are reasons for everything in this life, Samwell Tarly," the ancient maester explained, bending over and picking up the books. Sam's heart dropped as he watched the archmaester beginning to put them back, sliding them in their respective places. "What does the legends of old matter compared to the needs of the present day? There are larger forces at work in the world, Sam. We are the ones who keep the balance in the world. Should we allow any one person to have such terrible weapons as dragons? Perhaps the Army of the Dead is a thing or not. Yet there are living men who will be dead if we allow dragons to continue in the world."

Sam didn't want to hear this! All the hopes of the world surviving were in there! Just out of reach! And he had been an utter fool by dropping the books on the other side. He could have slipped them in the massive pouches in his robes and escaped with them.

These thoughts dogged his every step as he made his way to his apartment. He had never much believed in conspiracy theories. Yet, there was a conspiracy theory he had heard more than once. That the Order of Maesters was manipulating the entire world. Manipulating it so that the poor remained illiterate and dependent on a few wise men for answers. That they had great stores of knowledge that could advance the technology of Westeros by five hundred years yet they refused to, in order to keep their hold on the world. He had even heard that they had manuscripts detailing a horse-less wagon that ran on steam.

He found that to be far-fetched. Yet, he was beginning to believe in this particular conspiracy theory. As he opened the door, he let out a long breath, feeling defeated. Yet what he saw, made him smile. What he saw was almost as good as Gilly's naked body.

"Hello older brother," Dickon said, sitting in a chair next to the fire.

"Dickon!" Sam said, his face breaking in a smile. "What brings you here? I am glad to see you."

Dickon did not look nearly as happy to see Sam as Sam was to see him. Infact, he seemed rather uncomfortable. Sam frowned, feeling that something else was what brought Dickon here, and not to see his older brother. He glanced at the bed, and saw Gilly had fallen asleep with Little Sam in her arms.

"You stole _Heart's Bane_ ," Dickon said, without preamble. "Give it to me, Sam, while you still have a chance. I have respected your privacy and not gone searching for it. Yet if you refuse to….."

Sam's jaw hardened. "You'll what?" Sam snapped. "You think I'm scared of you? I helped fight off a hundred-thousand man army that attacked the Wall! I killed a White Walker! What can you possible do that I'd be scared of."

"Father has told me," Dickon breathed out slowly, clearly not enjoying this, "If you don't give me _Heart's Bane,_ then he will come and kill you and take it by force. But not before you are forced to watch his men use your woman as they will before killed her and the boy."

Sam was having a really rough day. And to hear that his father was threatening Gilly and Sam? That pushed him over the edge. He probably was going to regret saying this, but he crossed his arms, stepped close to Dickon and bent over him. The fierceness of his approach made Dickon shrink back from how close they were.

"Oh really?" Sam hissed. "You tell Father that if he ever tries to come near my family, I'll kill him."


	30. Epi 5, Ch 4: Jorah

***Jorah***

Jorah sat in the darkening area, a fire crackling happily as he tossed as few additional twigs to feed the ever-hungry flames. He pulled his cloak closer to him, the chill of the frosty air trying to seep into every part of his bones. There was no farm house for miles, so he was going to be forced to spend the night in the open. It was not ideal, yet he was prepared. He had already survived one winter in Westeros, he could certainly outlast this one!

The fire burned shortly outside the entrance of a snow cave he had built. It had taken him a few hours, but he had sculpted a cave of snow by hand, shaping it by tunneling out snow while sculpting the excess by patting it until it became solid and hard. The cave only went back about three feet, but it would hold and it was also faced away from the northerly winds that were sweeping the area. It would keep his body heat close to him, and contrary to what some might think, it would actually harden the snow, turning it something close to ice.

It was a useful skill that he had learned, building snow caves. Most people in the North learned how to do so, for it was a useful survival skill.

He was back here. Back in the North. How many years he had wished for this to be the case! He had even betrayed his beloved Daenerys for the slim hope of returning. Yet…..without her by his side, what was the point?

His camp was near where the White Knife River forked in two, one fork of the river shooting out towards Cerwyn, and Crofter's Village in the Wolfswood. The other fork shot up into the Sheepshead Hills and would eventually end in the Lonely Hills. At the Lonely Hills, it forked again, this time water went maybe a third of the way into those hills while another branch shot along the bottom edge, acting as a barrier between the Wolfswood and Lonely Hill before it emptied into the Long Lake.

His plan was to follow the White Knife up to the Lonely Hills, climb them to the other side, then Follow the Last River which formed a northern perimeter to it, over to the Kings Road. There was no place to cross the Last River except for the King's Road, unlike White Knife which had a bridge right where the White Knife made it first fork.

He opened the wine skin and used his teeth to uncork it. Then setting it on the ground, he opened the large pouch that lay at his side. Several tin boxes were resting in the bag, no larger than his hand. He picked up the one on top and opened it, to see the last dose of the _Time Giver_ tablets in the tin box. Jorah tipped it over and the tablet rolled into the other hand. With a flick he tossed the tin aside and with a deft movement he plopped the tablet inside of his mouth and lifted the wine skin and drank from it, washing down the medicine.

Jorah had been skeptical about the effectiveness of the medicine. Yet it had indeed held the greyscale at bay. It had not retreated along his body, but it advanced no further. It had been roughly over two weeks since he had started taking it, and while the grumpy captain of the ship that had brought him north had been a prying fool, he had arrived and had bought a good horse.

Well, good was the optimistic word for the beast. It hadn't been well-fed and it was right now pawing at the snow to find any grass it could eat. Yet the beast, which the man had named _Jande_ had not disappointed in being able to carry Jorah this far.

When was the last time he had been in this particular region? It had to have been with his wife, Lynesse Hightower. His marriage wasn't annulled or anything, they were just separated. He looked into the fire and allowed himself to think back when he had been with her. She had never been particularly happy. Yet they had good times. Like when they had come to the river here and had spent the night under the stars.

How was she? Was Lynesse happy? Was she living with her family? She couldn't exactly get married since they technically were still married. Unless she had gotten the marriage annulled, which she could do under certain circumstances and he didn't even have to be present. He knew she had taken up with another man, but was he still with him? Nothing was for certain in that regard. She had had expensive tastes, thus why he had been forced to sell poachers into slavery.

 _I should send her a raven,_ Jorah decided. _See how she is? My passion for her might be gone, but I still care for her well-being._

He let the fire burn low before retreating to his snow cave. It was indeed warmer than the exposed outside and the horse was laying down of the ground near the entrance. He grimaced as the sensitive skin around the greyscale hurt but he did not cry out. No, that wasn't the way of the old Lord of Bear Island.

He fell asleep, dreaming a very naughty dream of both Lynesse and Daenerys where he watched from the side.

* * *

Jorah awoke early the next morning as the sun crested the world, greeting it in warm glows. With a sigh he threw back the blankets and walked out of the cave and headed over to the river. He was only a stone's throw away from it. The snow crunched under his feet. At the White Knife's edge, he pulled out his manhood and pissed into the river.

 _I hope nobody is upstream,_ he thought with an amused smile.

He laced his breeches up after draining himself of the yellow water and turned. What he saw gave him more than a little pause.

"What the Seven Hells?" he asked, sweeping his eyes across his campsite. His horse Jande was….gone. He ran forward and bent over, his eyes scanning the ground to see where he might have got off to. He saw two pair of footsteps in the snow of differing sizes.

"I've been robbed!" Jorah exclaimed in no small amount of surprise and rose to his feet. "They took my horse, may the Gods curse them!"

He turned his gaze to the cave, where he had laid his sword and pouch next to him. And they were gone as well. No. No. No. No! He followed the footsteps as far as he could, but at a certain point, the two pairs of feet vanished and all that remained was the hooves of the horse. And its strides grew longer and longer as it had been sent away at a gallop.

His horse was gone. His sword was gone. His food was gone. And his medicine was gone.

This wasn't exactly the best time to lose stuff like that. Although at the moment, he didn't know what was the harsher loss. The loss of the horse meant Jorah now was going on foot. It had taken him only a week at an ease ride to reach the fork. His plan had depended on his ability to reach the Lonely Hills in roughly a week, which was now impossible to do. Walking would take him at the very least twice as long.

There was also the loss of his sword. He still had his dagger, because he never went to sleep without his dagger being underneath the bunched blanket he used for a pillow. Wait….was it still there?

He ran back to the cave. He reached it and grabbing the blanket threw it off, to see it still there. That made him a little better, as he would still have protection.

That was small comfort though.

His food was gone, and without the food, he wouldn't last more than a week at most, and he didn't think there were any farms within that timeframe. There was also the issue of the loss of his _Time Giver._ Even if he had food, the greyscale was going to make up all the lost weeks it had lost due to the medicine in a single day. He really wasn't sure how that was possible, yet he trusted that Archmaester knew his business in that regard.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

It was a bad situation no matter how he looked at it. Unless he found a farm within short order, he was going to die of hunger. He dropped to his knees and laced his fingers behind his head. It was too much to think of. He was all but doomed, and he had no way to carry out Daenerys last command to him.

The despair threatened to consume him totally. It was like a massive blanket trying to smother him, extinguish all life within him. All he had to do was take his dagger and end it quickly. It wasn't like he was ever going to have Daenerys to himself. He would never touch her gentle lips to his, hold her firm young body to his. So why should he continue on?

"No!" Jorah roared in defiance. He wasn't a man given to shouting, but with that act of defiance, new life seemed to flood into him.

He had long ago accepted that she would never be his. He had seen men he cared nothing for bed her. It had hurt him, but deep down, he had always known the truth. He was meant to protect her and her world. Was he now going to falter just because the going was tough? No, he wasn't!

He still had the water he could drink. He would stay hydrated. He would keep it to his right as he would make for the King's Road. The Barrowlands would be to his left, and together, they would guide him where he needed to go. He had no idea that in the South, Davos had not yet reached Dragonstone for his failed opening negotiations. He had no idea that Samwell Tarly would that very next day fumble one of his best chances to learn about White Walkers through his own clumsiness. He had no idea that Jon Snow was in Winterfell, angry that his Hand had disobeyed his commands about going to talk with the daughter of the Mad King.

Yet he knew one thing. A thing they said in Braavos. Something he had heard over and over from the people there. _There is only one God, and that is Death. And What do we say to the God of death?_

"Not today."

Jorah wrapped his blankets around him in a bundled wrap that lopped around his body. Belting on his dagger, he walked to the edge of the river, and then followed it. He would reach the fork of the river near noon, then he would take that left and head along it. His steps were determined and his purpose was clear.

* * *

Jorah leaned against the river bank and dipped his hands into the cold water and brought them up to his lips and drank. Three more times he did so. His knees were refusing to work as well as they ought, and it took some doing to unbend them and stand straight up. His body swayed and he nearly lost his balance, his equilibrium no longer as strong and causing his to stagger back a few steps. Yet he righted himself and leaned over, panting from the exertion.

It was two days after he had been robbed. Onwards he had pushed, but his lower breech legs were a frozen mess. His flints were gone, so he couldn't start a fire. The bastards had taken those as well when they had robbed him. The lack of food was starting to get to him. His hands and body trembled from the lack of new energy and at times his vision would become very fuzzy in one eye, as if he were going blind. It would pass each time it happened, yet he knew he was in deep shit.

He had not encountered a single farm in these past few days. Few farmers were in the Barrowlands, due to the taboo nature of them. Yes, there was good farmland around here, but there were tombs and graves dating back to the age of the First Men. People weren't too keen on disturbing the dead.

Shaking his head, he started out again, although he noticed that his vigor had all but gone now. Jorah cursed his advanced age. Why did age decrease everything but wisdom? Yet even there, old age would rob even the best and wisest of their wisdom. Age was a cruel bitch to all.

It was approaching midday when he glanced to the North. A massive storm had formed north of his position, unleashing their pregnant clouds of snow onto thee lands. Jorah only hoped that the storm didn't advance this far south. If it did, he'd be really fucked.

 _I'd be fucked like a whore at the end of the week when all the workers have been paid._

His luck held for the rest of the day, and as night was descending, he discovered a wooden building. Hope increased, he staggered forward with renewed vigor. It looked sturdy enough, at least from first glance, and a glance to the side told him that the storm had come closer. Yet it was still far enough away that it might pass him by.

Yet knowing his luck, it would hit hard. It was really hard to have as bad luck as Jorah Mormont. The door was ajar to the building, which now he surmised was a simple shed. It took effort, precious effort to pry it open. He looked inside and he closed his eyes in sympathy. A dead body was in the shed, a woman by the looks of it. Her body had become mummified by the cold, and she was curled up in the corner. Her eyes had been frozen open, her cold blue eyes frozen for all time.

"Sorry about this," he said, and grabbed her by the arms. "I know this was a terrible way to go. Yet I need this shed more than you do."

He was surprised that he easily carried her out, trying not to look into the eyes of the woman. She had been a young lass, perhaps no more than seventeen. To die out here, frozen with no one around, that was a cruel fate. She deserved to be home, a loving husband doting on her every wish, surrounded by young children.

Her eyes seemed to stare accusingly at Jorah as he entered the shed, as if it were his fault. Jorah believed in the soul and that it lived on. He could only hope that she would forgive him for removing her from her…

"Damn," he whispered to himself. There was a baby on the floor, right next to where she had been curled. The baby must have slipped out of her arms after the girl had frozen to death. It was also frozen stiff, and any hope he had left sagged as he saw this brutal thing. Children had a hard enough time growing to adulthood, why should nature be so cruel?

Jorah collected the infant in his arms, the infants eyes frozen shut although it's mouth was opened wide as if it had frozen mid-wailing. He walked it out to the mother and placed it at her feet. He would have placed it in her arms, but there was no way he could have bent the arms in such a way that he could have fit the child inside. Not as his current state.

He retreated to the shed and closed it, trying to think of the two bodies outside. As he sat on the ground, something pricked him hard. He jumped up, rubbing his butt, and looked down at what had stabbed him. It was flint and steel. Jorah prayed a quick prayer of thanks to the Old Gods that he worshipped and clutched them. Hope was at last being kindled.

Soon enough, he had a small fire going, from small pieces of wood he broke off the back wall. He fell asleep that night, warm for the first time in days. When he awoke the next morning and opened the door to the shed, he was greeted by a over a foot of new snow on the ground. He sagged against the door, the new snow seeming to laugh at him.

How was he going to get to the King's Road now?


	31. Epi 5, Ch 5: Arianne Martell

***Arianne Martell***

 _Trystane ran across the beach of Salt Shore, laughing with arms held high and waving. Prince Doran walked along the shore as well, her hands wrapped around the crook of his arm. The sand had a slick feel to it, like butter but somehow she held her footing. Waves of the Summer Sea crashed gently into the shoreline._

 _"Do not run to far Trystane!" Doran shouted, "Trystane! Are you listening to me?"_

 _"He's got cotton in his ears," Arianne teased. "If he had a good woman, then perhaps he would listen better."_

 _Prince Doran seemed to shudder. "One can only hope. He listens so little to what I have to tell him."_

 _The shore dissolved, the high sun being replaced with sandstone colored ceiling and mosaic tiled floors. Where there had been the sea, there now was rows of palm trees, a gentle breeze ruffling them back and forth. Where once they had been at Salt Shore, they were now in the Palace of Sunspear. Doran's more casual wear had been replaced with a more regal cloth of gold and silver that intertwined._

 _"Your brother will be marrying the Princess Myrcella," the Prince said, as Trystane no longer was running, but sitting on a bench in the gardens, stuffing his face full of pastries. "This is very good, very good indeed."_

 _"How?" Arianna asked, her own casual wear replaced with a golden dress that was sheer and left little to the imagination._

 _"We can get our claws into the Iron Throne," he said. "That is why I have the most important task for you, my daughter."_

 _"What task is this?" she asked._

 _A door appeared at the end of the hallway. For some reason this room seemed sensible, although for some reason she couldn't help but think this room was out of place. Aero Hotah was standing beside the door, the giant of a man opening the door._

 _She stepped through, and next thing she knew, she was lying naked on the bed. She did not question how it was possible to be on the shore at one moment in another part of Dorne, into the Palace the next, and naked in a bed the next. Arys Oakheart's glorious face looked down at her as he thrust in and out of her. Her family stood at the side, urging her to take him as deeply as she could, while the servants clapped each time she moaned._

 _"I think I love you," she said, reaching up and caressing his face._

 _"How do you like this most important task?" her father asked, "You seduce the Kingsguard, make him loyal, and we get Myrcella on the throne! Again, how do you like your most important task?"_

 _"It's….." she grunted as Arys drove extra hard into her. "It's rather difficult to say."_

 _"Why did I never get to do this with you?" Trystane pouted, but the Princess Myrcella appeared behind him, her hands covering his eyes._

 _Then Arys face twisted in rage. "Then you are not worthy!" his face was the same, but his voice sounded like Ellaria Sand's. His face melted, twisting until it was Ellaria Sand's, her hands bloody as she strangled Arianne. Trystane collapsed as his face exploded in a fountain on blood. Myrcella began to spout blood from her mouth as she collapsed to the floor. And Doran fell to her side, clutching Arianne._

 _"Do not let our murderers drag us into war!" he gasped, although it was hard for her to hear as blood thundered in her own head. "Avenge us, Arianne!"_

"Wake up!" a voice shouted and she awoke with a start as a bucket of icy water splashed in her face. She bolted upright, hitting her head hard against something. "Ellaria Sand wishes to speak with you, _Princess."_

She looked up, bleary eyed. It took her a few seconds to collect her wits. She was confused by the sight of bars surrounding her. She shook her head and looked down, seeing bars underneath her as well, cutting into her legs and buttocks. Why wasn't she feeling the bars as annoying as she ought to be? She glanced up and saw bars as well.

"Hello, Princess," Ellaria Sand said, stepping up to the cage. "Did you have a good sleep? I ask every day but I would think after the two months you've been in this cage, you would get used to it."

It all flooded back to her. She had been attacked by the Sand Snakes, tied up and led to the Palace. Upon arriving, she found several dead guards, their blood having dried. They paraded her to the body of her dead father. She had been too shocked to see the man who had always seemed to her so strong, lying in his own blood, staring at a sky that did not care. And to see Aero Hotah sprawled on the ground seemed simply unbelievable.

They had thrown her into this cage and Tyene Sand had mocked her about the fact that her family had all fallen so easily. The reason she did not feel the bars was simple, her body was used to them.

"Mama asked you a question!" Tyene said, hitting her with the butt of spear.

"It is alright," Ellaria cooed to her daughter. "Arianne has every right to still be angry with us. Especially since we are bringing her along with us to see the end of the dream of Prince Doran, where peace trumps even love and drive for vengeance."

"My father was a great man," Arianne said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You are nothing compared to him."

Ellaria seemed to not hear what she had to say. She did however put her hands around the bars and rest her face between them. She might have been able to squeeze though if not for her cheekbones. She looked sadly at Arianne. One of her fingers tapped the bar.

"My foolish girl," she said to Arianne. "Your father would have let our country rot. There is a time for peace, and a time for war. Dorne cannot remain idle. I come here every day, trying to convince you. As soon as you realize the folly of resistance, I will let you out of this cage."

Arianne looked up to her…..well, she wasn't an aunt. Or was she? She had never quiet understood where Ellaria fit into the family structure. Yes, she had been Oberyn's paramour. And she had birthed Arianne's cousin. Yet did that really make Ellaria family.

"If I decide to change my mind," she asked slowly. "You will let me out?"

Ellaria laughed, the sound cruel. "Oh no," she said, pulling back from the bars. "You will remain here until we have taken King's Landing. As soon as it has fallen and Dorne's banners fly over the capitols' walls, then we will let you out. But there is no sense in continuing to resist us. You are the last of the pure Martells and I'd hate to have to execute you. If you change your mind and heart to accept the new reality, you will be free at the end, to return to Dorne and rule there."

"You are a power-hungry bitch," Arianne retorted, "Why would I believe you? You have not once said this in the two months I have been held captive."

"You don't insult Mama!" Tyene snapped and Arianne recoiled, trying to block the butt of the spear with her hands. She was too slow though, and the hard wood connected with her ear. She bent over, grabbing her ear as pain blossomed there.

"You make this so much harder than this has to be," Ellaria shook her head. "I have no desire to rule Dorne, my girl. Yet I will as long as revenge against the Lannister's is needed. Once it is over, if you believe in the righteousness of our cause, I will not return to Dorne. Too much Dornish blood is on my hands." Ellaria stopped and seemed to sigh. A long moment passed and Arianne glanced around at the army. They were in middle of the encampment of the entire Dornish army. Almost every man and woman that served in the army were being marched north along the Prince's Pass to link up with the Reach's forces to overwhelm the Lannisters. It would only be a couple more days, and Arianne had been taunted yesterday that ravens had arrived telling Ellaria that the army of the Reach was waiting for them at the Passes mouth. "You were right. Your father was a good man. I took no pleasure in killing him. We may not have seen eye to eye, but he was a good ruler. He was just weak and loved peace more than family."

Ellaria turned to Arianne, the moment of regret passed. "If you haven't come over to our side by then…..I will have you drowned, by force feeding you the blood our enemies," she said, holding her nose imperiously in the air. "It is your choice."

With that, Ellaria turned and walked away. Tyene smirked at Arianne and raised her spear as if to strike Arianne again. Arianne cowered in the corner, wrapping her arms over her head to protect it. She heard the younger girl snort in derision and the other girl turn and walk off. Slowly, she lowered her arms and glanced around. There was no one around.

"Here," the guard who had splashed her with water said, holding out a piece of bread. "Time to eat."

Arianne slid across the bars, reaching out to grab it. The guard spat on the food, and grinned evilly as she took it and hungrily tore at the food. He leered at her but she didn't care. It was hard, but with enough chewing, it broke down, even though the pieces were rough on the roof of her mouth.

"That's right," he jeered, "Eat it. Eat the spittle from my mouth on that day-old bread. You are a disgusting bitch, aren't you, _Princess_."

He held out a cup to her, filled with a clear liquid. She drank it, and found that it was lukewarm. Dorne seemed to do that to everything. Except for love and hate. Those ran more than just lukewarm. Even the venom the guard put in his voice when he said her title didn't even come close to the hatred she felt oozing from Ellaria Sand. She was so consumed by hatred she couldn't see straight.

"How do you like my piss?" the guard asked. "I've known whores with more dignity than you."

She was too thirsty to spit it out. This was the only drink she'd be given all day long.

The army began rolling out shortly after, and the cage was pulled along. There were wheels attached to the bottom of the cage, much like a wagon. Nearly fifty thousand men and women were marching to war. Dorne did not have the same presumptions about men and women fighting in the ranks. Although only one in every ten soldiers were women, they were there, just as fierce as the men.

Arianne was filthy, nowhere nearly as presentable as a princess should be. Her hair was caked with grime, dust covered every part of her body. He dress was in tatters around her. She had no bucket to shit or piss into, so she had to do it between the bars of her cage. Her dress was stained with fickle matter and bodily fluids. Part of the mess was also caused by two months worth of moon's blood. They refused to give her new clothing during her moon's blood so her dress was now a mixture of yellow, brown, red and dark sweat stains.

She looked and felt absolutely horrid. She no longer cared about her appearance, but she was laced with bruises galore from the abuse she had taken. Only once had she been let out of the cage, but it was to be violently attacked, beaten with both fist and foot. She had never been touched sexually, Ellaria wouldn't allow that, but anything else was game. Rain rarely fell in Dorne, and the only time anything fell on her water wise, was when they would splash her with water to wake her up.

Arianne knew the truth. Ellaria would have her killed either way. For all her claims about not wanting to rule Dorne, she knew that Arianne would pursue vengeance for all the abuse she had taken, both physically and emotionally. Even if Arianne truly accepted her point of view and adopted it as her own, Ellaria couldn't risk the chance that one day her own daughter would be treated just as cruelly.

 _I will die,_ Arianne thought as the cage tilted, the pass making a sharp incline for a short while. The work horse that carried her cage snorted as it put extra effort into making the climb. The incline wasn't completely steep, but it was enough that Arianne was pulled by gravity from the front of the cage to the back.

"It's hard to imagine you were ever a beauty once," the guard said, mock shame in his voice. "I used to imagine you naked as I would guard your father. I highly doubt he would have approved of what my imaginings usually ended up on. But now….you are filthier than a dog whose had to have his fur shaved to kill fleas."

She had been amazingly glorious at one time. Her hair had been a luscious thick dark brown that had been full. Brown eyes that had looked between slender, long eyelashes and well-groomed, long thin eyebrows. Her skin was the a light tan color. She had not been very tall, but she had been well-built as it were. Perhaps her most appealing quality to men was her large breasts that were well-rounded.

Pretty boys had ever been her weakness, particularly the ones who were dark and dangerous as well. Her father had indeed put her up to seducing Arys Oakheart. He had a clear plan that would eventually put Daenerys Targaryen on the throne. He had had told her that before she first went to the Kingsguard to use all her charms on him. They needed a Kingsguard who was loyal to Myrcella when her younger brother Trystane took the Iron Throne, from whence they'd rule until the Mother of Dragons succeeded in subduing Westeros, then they'd live in Dorne, where Dornish rule had always ruled, according to their pact with Aegon Targaryen.

She had certainly been up to the task. Yet she had not been so up to keeping her own feelings at bay. How had she ever fallen in love with Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard? She knew that Doran had never really wanted Arianne to rule, and that she more or less could do whatever she pleased. Yet….she had never meant to give her heart away to Arys. She was only supposed to like him enough that he never would notice her intentions weren't more than that.

 _Now all I want is for him to come rescue me,_ she thought, her heart stinging with the sorrow. In his white cloak, he would be glorious to behold, charging the Dornish ranks, cutting his way to her. She wouldn't care if they never returned to Dorne, as long as she was safe in his arms.

She did not want to see battle. Even though Ellaria was bound and determined to force her to watch, she didn't wish to see the blood of any man spilled. Except perhaps that creature who guarded her. And Ellaria Sand and her daughter. If they could die slow deaths, that would please her greatly.

The cage leveled out as the pass stopped inclining and she lay down. There was nothing for her to do. No plans she could make to escape. Even if she did, where would she go? Her stench alone would make escape impossible. So, lying down in a dress that was becoming hard and brittle in places from filth, she stared at the road of the pass as they continued. It was all she could do, and dream of a day where she would be free.

Dream though was all it was. There was no way she was living at the end of this. Only death awaited, and she would embrace it eagerly and willingly. Anything to escape this hellish existence.

"Arys," she muttered to herself. "You are taking too long in rescuing me. I know well that proxy bitch you love, Duty. But, could you come and find me and rescue me?"

She knew the prayer was wasted though, for a prayer it was. She had prayed many times and nothing good had ever happened. Why should it now?


	32. Epi 5, Ch 6: Melisandre

***Melisandre***

The fire burned on the small ship as evening approached. They would reach Dragonstone by sunset, or so the Captain of the Vale, a short man who seemed uninclined to women. What else would explain his not ogling her exquisite breasts?

The man was competent, and his crew did well in following his example. One young man had been smitten with her, and she had caught him spying on her when she had undressed in the guest cabin. This was an odd ship, for the Captain had his own quarters, while underneath the deck, he had constructed a guest quarter near the prow. It wasn't much, but she enjoyed the solitude.

When the young man had taken it upon himself to spy out her beauty, she had said a short and simple statement to him. In it, both terror and beauty were mixed. The words were not important. What was important was what happened with the lad afterwards. He wouldn't even _breath_ in her direction now.

The flames were showing her many things. None of them good. The North was mobilizing, she could see, but the forces arrayed against them would easily swarm them. She saw an old man trying to convince a young Queen of the Cause, yet she rejected the Cause in favor of a lesser one.

That was why Melisandre, the Priestess Supreme of the Westeros Faith, was going to Dragonstone. She had a part to play in the War of the Dawn, even if she had been banished for burning a girl at the stake. It had been the best thing possible though. The winter had been held off just long enough for Jon Snow, the real Prince who was Promised, to take his rightful place as King in the North.

She scoured the flames, looking for more clues of what the future held. There was fire from the sky that ravaged the Army of the Dead. Yes, that was good. It meant that Daenerys Targaryen would join the war. Unless…..unless there was another. Another who rode dragons into battle. No…..there was only Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons. Although there were still beasts of fire in the Shadow Lands beyond the city of Asshai.

She would know this for certain. Melisandre was from Asshai, a city of few inhabitants, especially when compared to the cities of Westeros. It had a similar populace as she had heard Winterfell and the Dreadfort had combined. Melisandre had been a slave, her master buying her when she had just turned into a woman. He had used her for one purpose and one purpose only. She shuddered at the memory, even as she clutched the ruby gem around her neck.

That had been so long ago. Far longer than anyone suspected. There was not a man or woman alive in Essos, Sothoryos, Westeros or Ibben who had lived when she was a child. She had seen generations come and go. She had traveled to every part of the explored world. She had loved, married, born children and had buried them all.

The Red Woman, they called her now. She'd had many crisis of faith, and the Lord of Light had shown her again and again the folly of such disbelief. She needed little food, little sleep. She needed little clothing to protect her against the cold. She was close to a being of pure fire as one could become in the mortal flesh.

Her eyes scanned the flames. There she was. The girl with the thousand eyes. Blue eyes. Yellow eyes. Pale blue eyes that turned like cold stars. Eyes she would close. The angry girl. She was in every one of her visions since she had first seen her. She had taken her friend Gendry to sacrifice to the Lord of Light. She had vowed vengeance on Melisandre for that.

And she always saw her, at the end of every vision. It was rather comforting in a way. To see her end. The vision always ended with the girl with a bloody dagger and Melisandre falling backwards, the shadow enveloping her.

There was a rap on her door. Melisandre pulled away from the flames and turned to the door. There was nothing menacing about wood.

"Yes?" she called.

"Begging your pardon, mi'lady," the Captain said, opening the door to look at her. "We have been allowed to land at Dragonstone."

"Good," she nodded.

The sun was setting when she finally landed on the shore of Dragonstone. A bald man waited, a look of disdain in his eyes. There was also two Unsullied, in their black leather armor waiting with spears held up.

"If it isn't Lady Melisandre," the man mocked. "Welcome to Dragonstone."

"My Lord Varys," she replied, inkling her head. "I must remember to thank the Queen for sending someone as important as yourself to escort me."

"Well, I am the only one who is immune to both your sorcery, both kinds you take my meaning," Varys replied.

A screech filled the night sky, and Melisandre looked up. She saw it, one of the dragons, flying high above the island in the sky above. She was envious of that type of freedom. To be confined to the ground was the one thing she regretted never having overcome in her long life.

"Magnificent," she commented.

"This way _, my lady_ ," Varys said, putting as much mockery into the words as he possibly could.

She followed him, looking around as she did so. She spotted a ship, with the Stark Direwolf. It was hard to make out in the dark. Yet she had keener sight than most mortals, and the Lord's Light gave her a far clearer image of the world around her in the dark. She knew who was on that ship. She commended his determination.

"It is a good thing I came to retrieve you," Varys called over his shoulder. "The last guest came here without his King's knowledge or consent."

"Does Ser Davos know that a raven was sent here for him?" Melisandre asked, "Or are you keeping it from him? Like you are with the ravens from the Reach, the ones that thank you for the information about what happened to the prisoners? Or the news you received on Princess Myrcella, that you are withholding from Lord Tyrion?"

Varys slowed, turning to look at her sideways. His antagonistic demeanor shifted to one that was unsettled. He turned to look away, staring at the fortress.

"Everything I have done is for the good of the Realm," he said. "Personally, I disagree with withholding the information of Tyrion's niece from him. It does pain me so to hear him making future plans of how he was going to be a part of his niece's life, after the War is over."

"We both know what you truly mean by 'good for the Realm'," Melisandre replied with a smug smile. "You cannot fool one who has the Lord's favor. I even know the words the spirit said in response to sorcerer who threw your parts into the fire. Would you like me to repeat them to you?"

"I know very well what they say," Varys replied stiffly. "That is why I am here in Westeros. But contrary to what you may believe, Lady Olenna and the Sand Snakes would have burned the entire continent for vengeance. They cared nothing about the innocent. What I've done is ensure that reasonable people will be in charge."

"I'm not saying I disapprove of your methods, Lord Varys," Melisandre assured him. "Only your reasons."

Varys stopped and held out a hand, grabbing her shoulder. "You and I can speak plainly as these two," he thumbed the Unsullied behind him, "Can't speak or understand a word in Westerose. I believe that Queen Daenerys may have greatness to her, but I will not allow her to run rampant through Westeros. If you tell the Queen anything about this….well, what is your lot so fond of saying? The night is dark and full of terrors. You will see just how true that is."

Melisandre smiled and placed a hand tenderly on his cheek. He seemed unnerved by that action.

"You have nothing to fear from me, dear spider," she assured him. "She will not hear any of this from me."

With that, she let go of his cheek and continued her pilgrimage to the fortress of dragonstone. She was ushered in at every check point, Varys trying to keep ahead of her. Yet Melisandre was determined to reach the young Queen, and her speed nearly left Varys behind.

At long last, she was led to see the Queen. She took the measure of Daenerys Targaryen, who was leaning back against the throne. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn't sleeping. Her fingers were pressed against her temple, rubbing out a headache.

"The Red Priestess Melisandre, Your Grace," Varys announced their guest to Daenerys.

Daenerys winced and she dropped her fingers and leaned forward in the throne. She kept her eyes closed, clearly in a lot of pain. Melisandre found Daenerys to be pretty enough, although she was no great beauty. The main of her attraction was the power she exuded from her. Daenerys Targaryen was a woman who knew her place in the world, and let nothing get in the way of her.

"I can always return later, Your Grace," Melisandre offered.

"Nonsense," the young Queen waved her hand. She opened her eyes, and even from where she stood, Melisandre could see the veins laced around her pupils in her eyeballs. "Forgive me, I get the most awful headaches. But I am indeed pleased to meet you, my lady. Your Order was a great help in stabilizing Meereen while I was away. Therefore, I am more than pleased to take time to see you."

"Your Grace," Melisandre inclined her head. "I come with a grave warning."

Melisandre felt more than saw Varys stiffen at her side. It was indeed amusing to her to see a Master of Whispers on edge. Especially one with a reputation as renouned as that of Varys the Eunuch.

"A warning?" Daenerys asked, cocking her head to the side. "What warning is that?"

"There is a war coming," Melisandre explained. "From the North comes a great threat. One greater than anything to be found in the South. One that will extinguish all life if can. It comes on the winds of winter. It brings it with it, and only the Wall to the North so far has held it back. Yet that will soon change."

Varys' eyebrows rose and Daenerys rolled her eyes and put her head in her hands. She was shaking her head, as if she couldn't believe she was hearing this. Yet, it wasn't a "Good Lord! This is terrible!" It was "Not this again!" Melisandre waited for the young woman to say something. Anything.

"Did Jon Snow send you?" she finally asked, not raising her head. "Did he think that if an oold man couldn't sway me, all you need do is flash your tits and I would be seduced to his message? Well, forgive me, Lady Melisandre. I know you can see things yes?"

"Of course," Melisandre replied, rather surprised by Daenerys reaction. "I have seen many things."

"I am sure you told Jon Snow about my…..experiences with some of my handmaidens," she said, an edge to her voice. "Yet I am not into women. Therefore, just because you are a woman, doesn't mean I will be easily swayed."

"Your Grace?" Melisandre asked. She was genuinely confused with what Daenerys was talking about. Did she think Jon Snow had sent her? And that she was to seduce her? Unfortunately, Melisandre did not have those tastes towards her own gender. "What are you talking about?"

"That's the whole point, isn't it!" Daenerys snapped, "Your old man comes here, tries to soften me up. Then you come down with your exotic accent and revealing clothing, and then I will be too dazed to think clearly. Well, even with a headache, I am far superior than any ruler in Westeros when it comes being determined in my course of action. So you can go back to your master and…."

"Jon Snow is not my master," Melisandre interrupted her tirade. "I was banished from the North for….unfortunate misunderstandings. I came here on my volition. Do I know Ser Davos? Yes, I know him from the time he served King Stannis. But we were never friendly, Your Grace.

"But trust me, you have a part to play. You and Jon Snow, King of the North. Together you can save the world from the evil about to overwhelm us."

"I do know only one truth to what she says for a certainty," Varys stepped in. "She did serve King Stannis. A false King who would have done anything, even burn people at the stake for powers sake."

"Luckily for you, Varys," Daenerys snarled, "I care not for the past. Otherwise, my dragons would not have to go hunting tonight."

Varys took the rebuke in stride and bowed towards her. Daenerys leaned back in the throne. She stroked her chin, one eyelid barely open as if the light was painful to her. She seemed to be thinking hard.

"There is one way to determine the truth," she said. She looked to a guard and spoke in High Valyrian to him. "Go at once and collect Lord Tyrion. Have him go with you to collect Ser Davos Seaworth. Have him come here, and tell him I'm willing to reconsider."

The guard set off at once, holding his spear tightly in one hand as he went to fetch Lord Tyrion. Now Melisandre was nervous. She remembered the last time that she met Ser Davos. It had been very bad, and he had threatened to kill her.

"I think that is not a good idea, Your Grace," Melisandre informed her in Valyrian.

"Why not?" the Mother of Dragons demanded. "You ask me to believe that there is this threat from the North and I should abandon my war which hasn't even fully begun. Yet you think that I will take your story on faith? No, I will have the truth at the very least in this matter."

Melisandre shrugged. "Lord Davos has threatened he will kill me if we ever see each other again," she replied, squirming.

"Oh really?" Varys said, a smile creeping on his face. "Do tell."

"It is….personal between us," Melisandre said, not meeting his gaze.

"I don't really care," Daenerys said, "You will stay here until Ser Davos shows up."

Melisandre dreaded the minutes as they ticked by. Davos would have no trouble in attacking her. He had already proven that, even when he was in the presence of his beloved Stannis and he held the Red Woman in high regards. What was to stop him from attacking her here? In front of Daenerys Targaryen? They needed to not show any strife, but be united. Yet how could she communicate to him that need?

The door to the throne room opened and in stepped Davos. She didn't look back at him, but kept looking straight forward. Lord Tyrion was by his side, as was the guard. Melisandre turned ever so slightly as Davos couldn't get a good look at her face. Hopefully he had poor eyesight and the darkness would conceal her identity.

"Your Grace," Davos said, bowing.

"My Lord," Daenerys said, "You say Jon Snow sent you hear to treat with me. To get my dragons to help fight in your war against grumpkins and snarks. This is correct?"

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I need to correct you on two points," Davos said. "I didn't have my King's permission to come south. He actually told me that he would not treat with the woman who burned his uncle and grandfather and that you weren't to be trusted."

Daenerys seemed shocked, as if she had been taken completely by surprise. "Then why are you here if Jon Snow did not permit you to come South?" she asked him.

Davos voice was proud as he said, "I knew this was right. My job as Hand is to make sure that my King doesn't make true mistakes. And against this enemy, the worst mistake is not to unite all the forces we can. The Enemy….it is real….and it is coming for us."

"How do I know you are telling me the truth and Jon Snow did not send you here?" Daenerys asked.

Varys stepped forward, shielding Melisandre without realizing he was doing so. He cleared his throat, bringing all attention to him.

"If I may, Your Grace," he said, "Ser Davos received a raven from Winterfell. It was a rebuke for coming here without leave and a command to return at once."

"And this woman?" Daenerys demanded, pointing to her, "Did she really come of her own volition? Or did she get sent here by Jon Snow?"

Melisandre closed her eyes and grimaced as Ser Davos' voice caught loud enough for all to hear. She could all but hear the blood boiling inside the man. Lifting her head proudly, she turned to face Ser Davos, whose hands were clenched in anger.

"I do know her, Your Grace!" he said, his voice strangled. "She's a witch and shouldn't be treated with!"

"She says she was banished from the North," Daenerys stated. "I would have the reason."

 _Please,_ Melisandre pleaded with her eyes, hoping Davos would understand. _We need her! If you tell her the truth….everything will be lost!_

"She…..she…." Davos' hand trembled. His eyes held hers, promising evil deeds in the future as he struggled to speak. He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. "She is so eager to please her god, that…..she does things that most people would find distasteful."

"I do not understand," Daenerys said. "What do you mean by that?"

Davos and Melisandre held each other's gaze. "I know only one truth about the Lady Melisandre," Davos said, not letting go of her eyes. "She has real power. She has caused kings to fall and dead men to rise from the grave. She may not be the most pleasant person in the world, but she is no friend to the Enemy that approaches us and does everything she can to fight them."

"How so?"

"She was the first to spot the danger of the North," Davos said, turning to her. "If she says something is the case, you can be assured it is."

Melisandre felt relief flooding through her. She knew it was not for her that Davos had said thus. He was smart enough to know what needed to be done. Daenerys was sitting there, mulling over everything she had just learned.

"Tell me more about this threat," she finally said, leaning back in her chair. "And why Jon Snow means so much to you both."


	33. Epi 5, Ch 7: Arya

***Arya***

A bitter chill bit into her. Her horse was grazing on some short grass that lined the road. She was tied to a young birch, who seemed to stubbornly cling to its leaves, refusing to let them drop. Arya ate the cooked stew, a wooden ladle sticking out that she'd from time to time scoop in and drop it into the bowl.

"Can I have this bread?" she asked, turning to the man next to her. Without waiting for him to respond she grabbed it and said. "Thanks."

"Let me have a sip," she said, reaching to the man on the other side of her, grabbing his wooden canteen and popping off the lid. "You don't have to be so greedy."

She looked at the blood that was soaked into the bread, and she tore a chunk off it, as far down as it went. She rolled her eyes as she began chewing the bread, tossing the bloodied bread into the fire. As she ate, she pointed an accusing finger at the man.

"Next time someone stabs you, try not to bleed all over the food, aye?" she asked him.

The man sat, with a dagger shoved from the bottom of his jaw, up into the skull. An instant kill, as fine as one she had done. She had feared his strong black skin would turn aside the knife, yet to her satisfaction, she had learned that colored knights died just as easily as pale skinned ones. The man to her other side, she had slit his throat, from ear to ear. Blood was stained all down the front of his gambeson.

These two men had been hedge knights. Ser Damon the Darkskinned the dark skinned one called himself, while the other was Ser Mallary the Lowborn. Hedge knights did not swear loyalty necessarily from one House to another. They roamed the land as mercenaries, willing to accept any work that needed to be done. Her father had once played host to a hedge knight. She remembered him still, a tall, dark and mysterious man, who was going north to help a small village that had a problem with robbers. His price had been food and a place to stay while he was there.

She had actually wanted to be a hedge knight at one time, for the Hedge Knight, who she believed had called himself Ser Eragon of House Morzan, had told her all about his adventures. He claimed to be from Palisade Village, which she knew was on the King's Road side of the mountains that shielded the Vale of Arryn. She had been so enraptured with his tales, claiming he had known a blue dragon called Saphira during a job in Essos and had learned much magic from a storyteller named Brom. He had seen a mountain that rose outside of sky and cities that lived in hollowed mountains.

After he had left, Eddard Stark had told her not to believe in his fanciful tales. That the tales were meant to make him look more fierce then he actually was. She remembered though his blue colored Valyrian steel sword and as she leaned back, chewing on the bowl of food, she began to think about how long it would take her to reach Palisade Village. She was two days ride from Crossroads Inn, where they had left Hot Pie and two days from Palisade Village. She could make it there, and see if he was there.

He claimed to have a half-brother and he was a bastard that had been legitimized by his father although his mother had been unfaithful. Yes, she would go to Palisade Village to see if there was indeed an Eragon of House Morzan living there.

"Yes," she told her two silent companions. "In the morning I will leave. Head for Palisade Village. Maybe from there I will go to the Eyrie. I have a cousin that lives there and I will see what he has to say."

She put the bowl down and with a sharp yank, pulled the dagger from Ser Damon's jaw. She stood up and stepping to his side, grabbed the large man and laid him on his side. With two swiping motions, she cleaned off the blade on his tabard, which hung over his shirt of mail.

"First though," she announced, "I need your face."

And with that, she set her blade against his face and got to work.

* * *

The ride to Palisade Village was not too far. Nor was it difficult. She did have to leave the main road and ride over fields towards it. The lands rolled in gentle hills as they got closer to the mountains of the Vale. The foothills soon rose to above her head, even if she had stood on her horse's saddle, but she kept a general steady course.

Now, she had never been to Palisade Village, and didn't know the actual location of it. Yet she had a general idea of the Vale and the layouts of the mountains, and knew enough of the terrain to know that it was north of the High Road.

There were a few farms that she passed, and each night she spent at a new farm house. The first one was a pig farm where a middle-aged woman and her two sons tended them. They gave her a place by the fire. On the second night, the farm had cattle and sheep. A young couple lived there, a straw-haired colored man who was thin and a thin woman of a height similar to Arya's with dark black hair.

Night was beginning to fall for the third night when she encountered a dirt road. A very small dusting of snow had fallen, so she was able to make out the path very easily. The wooden walls appeared just as the sun was setting to the west. The sun was behind her and she saw the gate being closed.

"Wait!" she called out, applying her heel to her horse and setting off at a gallop. "Don't close the gate yet!"

The gatekeeper turned to her and raised a hand to his eyes. "Hurry girl! Hurry!" he called out, "I'm not stopping to close this gate. If you can make it through before I close it, you can enter."

Arya leaned close to the horse's neck and urged her onward. The gatekeeper had slowed how fast he was closing the gate, but it was a near thing. She barely managed to squeeze through by turning the horse at an angle at the last second.

"Good thing you are skinny thing, lass," the gatekeeper said, dropping a cross-beam into place. "We close the gate every night. Had you arrived even a few minutes later, you'd have had to stay outside."

"Thanks," Arya nodded. "Tell me, I pray. Where is the local inn?"

"That would be _the Plump Duck,_ " the gatekeeper informed her, eyeing the gatehouse enviously. He wanted to get in out of the chill. "Go to the very center of the village. There is no sign hanging for people to see, but the door has a painted duck. Silly, if you ask me. I told them to make it easy, but no one asks Old Barney the Lizard anything."

"Thanks," Arya said again and started off, leaving the old man cursing the lack of appreciation from his neighbors.

Curious eyes pressed to windows as she passed homes. She took inventory of the village, and found it was well-made. The houses seemed to have been organized and created with the best wood. The streets were a good size, enough that two wagons could pass each other while having room for people to walk between them without risk of getting run down. The alleys were also good sized and fencing ran down the alleys, marking them plainly.

People quickly took notice of this stranger in their midst, but few went out of their way to greet her. It wasn't hostility or anything that she felt from the people. Her Faceless Men training had taught her how to spot it. No, this was uncertainty on their part. What was a young girl doing by herself? Why was she so heavily armed? They were gauging whether _she_ was a threat.

If only they knew.

It didn't take too long for her to find _The Plump Duck._ She kept her eyes on the doors, and she was surprised that many of them had paintings or even glass windows on the doors that allowed them to see out. She was rather intrigued by the doors with the glass windows. But finding the inn, and the hitching post waiting with a spot open for her horse, next to three mares, she tied her horse to it, a feed trough filled with hay waiting for the horse.

Arya patted her horse as she went for the hay, and with a sucking in of her gut, she entered the inn. At once she was presented with a nice, cozy picture. There was plenty of people here, but there wasn't so many that she couldn't easily see through the crowd. A few noticed her and gave her quizzical looks, but returned to their conversations.

She stepped up to the bar and the bartender stepped forward, wiping a rag in a wooden cup. He was a nice enough man, with a big nose like a raddish. Her father had once told her, 'The very first thing you notice about a person is important because it shapes your opinion of them.' And her first impression was the man belonged in a garden with his nose ripe to pick.

"'Ello, lass," the bartender said, putting the wooden cup on the bar. "My name is Bradley. What are 'ou 'oing? 'ow can I be of service to 'ou?"

Arya was thrown off by the lack of letters before most words with an 'o' in them. She couldn't help but imagine Septa Mordane boxing his ears for his lack of grammar. The image made her smile, which she hoped he would recognize it for something not related to the conversation.

"I was hoping you could tell me if there is a person who lives here," she said. "He visited my father several years back. If he is, I'd like to meet him."

"O? 'ow might he be?" the bartender asked, a smile on his face. He was missing a couple of teeth, probably from fights he had been broken up in the past.

"His name is Eragon of House Morzan," she said and the bartender burst out laughing and slapped the bar. People turned to him to see what was so funny. Arya was stunned into silence, not sure what was so funny.

Pointing a finger at Arya, he called out to the group. "This lass wants to see Eragon!" he laughed, slapping his rotund belly.

"All hail the Shadeslayer!" the patrons shouted, lifting their cups in mock salute then burst out laughing.

Arya looked around her, a few people brought to tears and others gasping for breath as they tried to breathe while laughing. She began counting how many people were in the room. There was about twenty. It'd be a stretch, but she could kill them all and take their faces. She began finger _Needle_ as she began planning how she would go about it.

"Forgive us lass," Bradley said, reaching out and putting a hand on her shoulder. "Eragon is a man of tall tales. He and his brother Murtagh make up wild stories all the time. 'ot to mention their 'oor wives who have to put up with the tales."

Arya wasn't quite sure about tall tales. She had heard tales of the Faceless Assassin's and now, she was one! Yet it didn't bode ill if the entire village seemed to take the men as charlatans. She would have hated to make a detour instead of visiting Hot Pie if this was all a farce.

"I'll take you to them," a man said, standing.

Arya turned to him, and the man was shorter than most, with a broad chest and a beard that had seemed to suck all the hair from his head and into his chin. She nodded to him as he stepped up, and followed him, pleasantly surprised to be around someone who didn't tower over her by nearly a full foot. Although he was still taller than her. She could think of a few ways to drop him a few inches. Might be messy, but it was possible.

"So how did you two meet?" he asked once they were out in the street.

"He visited Winterfell many years ago," she said. "His stories were…well…they were partly what helped me decide that I didn't want to become a lady like my Lady-Mother or sister. His tales fueled my imagination."

He nodded. "Most people find their tales outrageous to say the least," he shook his head. "Are they well-traveled? Gods know they vanished for a couple of years before returning. You see, part of what made them decide to be hedge knights was the death of their father. Morzan was killed by a Priest of R'hollor while Eragon and Murtagh were young, and their mother never recovered. She died only a few years later. Their uncle raised them on his farm, but this same priest arrived with several men and burned down the house and used magic to kill their uncle. So, they abandoned the village to hunt down the priest and the rogues."

"Bad luck seemed to have followed them everywhere," Arya said. She remembered that for a long time, there was nothing but bad luck in store for her. Her father had been butchered, Syrio Forel had been butchered, she had seen all her father's guard massacred. She had been forced to serve Tywin Lannister and she had witnessed the death of so many friends and loved ones. She couldn't help remembering Sansa standing by her beloved Joffrey, smiling as Ned's sentence had been carried out.

She understood the need for vengeance very well.

"Aye," he nodded his head. "Don't worry though, their vengeance has been slackened, or so they claim. They never harm anyone with guest rights. Not like the Frays, Gods curse their names! I'd love to meet the person who gave them their due."

 _Oh really?_ Arya smirked.

They went to a house at the back left corner of the village, the house pushed up against the mountain. The man begged leave and said that it was easy to find the _Plump Duck_ when she decided to leave.

The house was built so the door was back, while the walls were pushed forward, creating an impression of a castle gate. She stepped up to the door and was surprised by what was carved on there. There was a hammer carved into the wood, with twelve stars surrounding it. She could tell by a light that shown from a window that pushed out from the door.

Steeling herself, she raised her knuckles and rapped the door. She waited but hearing nothing, knocked on the door again. Now she heard someone, or several people shouting at each other. One of the voices came closer to the door, shouting back.

" _…it really so hard to get the door?_ " a woman's voice was shouting back. " _I was busy cooking supper!"_

The door swung open, and a woman of equal height to her stood in the doorway. The woman's skin was dark, almost as dark as the night that was falling. A hard look was to her eyes.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice one of authority.

"Is Ser Eragon in?" she asked.

"Who wants to know?" the woman demanded, "Are you a bastard of his?"

Arya succeeded in not grabbing her dagger and plunging it into the smug woman's heart. "I'm no bastard," she said proudly. "Although my brother is. Not his bastard, but the bastard of Ned Stark. Jon Snow, the King in the North. Tell him that he visited my family years ago in Winterfell."

The woman glowered at her suspiciously. Finally, she stepped back and ran off to another room. Soon, a man walked up to the door. His face was covered in a well-trimmed beard that she couldn't make the color out in the candle light. He took a long look at her then his hand shot out, grabbed her and pulled her in roughly and slammed the door shut.

"It's not safe for Ned Stark's daughter to be announcing her name like that!" the man said, turning to her. "Many in this village would sell you the Queen's men. There is a nice bounty on your head, little one. Queen Cersei wants your head on a platter to spite your half-brother."

"I can take care of myself," she said, raising her chin in defiance.

"With that toad-sticker?" he snorted. "The only thing you'll be able to do it poke someone in the eye."

As he finished saying that, he turned to her fully. Despite the years, she could tell that this was indeed Eragon of House Morzan. It might have been the nostalgia talking, but Arya found him to be far more handsome now than back in her childhood.

"So, what brings you here?" Eragon asked.

"I was on the King's Road and remembered you said you came from here," she said. "So, I decided to see if any of the stories were true that you told me."

"That," another woman's voice called out, stepping down the long flight of stairs. She was a rather tall woman compared to Arya, with long flowing black hair. She was rather fit as well. Arya could tell the accent of someone from Qohor, as many of them came to Braavos. "And more are true. My name is Arya, and you are?"

"Arya," Arya replied.

"Great!" the dark-skinned woman rolled her eyes. "Now there's two of you! May the Nameless God curse you both."


	34. Epi 5, Ch 8: Yara Greyjoy

***Yara Greyjoy***

The ship bobbed gently in the calm water surrounding Dragonstone, allowing Yara to eat from her table without having to worry about trying to stop food rolling off her plate. One good thing about blockading Blackwater Bay was they had nabbed a dozen ships carrying food of all sorts. Their latest prize had been caught by her own longship, the _Black Wind._

Her crew was experienced and could catch a fever if she so desired. She had managed to take ninety-three ships from the Iron Islands, the very best ships. These captains realized that Euron was a bad egg. Now they served the Mother of Dragons. They had been unhappy with the conditions that had been set for the assistance of Daenerys Targaryen against the crazed fool who now thought to call himself King of the Salt Throne.

 _It should be mine, damn it!_ She thought angrily as she speared the grape with a two-pronged fork.

She wasn't even fully finished chewing it when there was a knock on the door to her Captain's cabin. She afforded herself few luxuries, but she allowed herself her own quarters that were blocked off from the rest of the crew. It wasn't like she had any interest in the men on the ship, anyway.

"Yes?" she asked, calling around her food.

"It's me," Theon's voice came through the door.

"Come in, come in," she called to him, and the door opened. "You don't have too knock on my door, little brother. You can come in any time you like."

"I'd rather not invade your privacy," Theon replied, walking over to her table. He reached out and grabbed a grape and plopped it in his mouth.

Yara smirked as she turned to him. "It didn't stop you first time we met when you came back to the Iron Islands," she reminded him.

"I was a different person then," he agreed.

"You know I heard a lot about you, back in those days," Yara said, stabbing another grape and sticking it in her mouth. "The way they talked about you, you had your cock in every cunt on the main lands."

Theon's face twitched at the mention of his missing member. Yara silently cursed herself. She had not meant to be cruel, and it was still a sore subject for him. She had wondered just what Ramsey Bolton had done to Theon. She knew about the cock, she had opened up the damned box after-all. But it was far more than that. Ramsey had really fucked up her brother's mind, unmanning him the worst way possible.

"I didn't mean…." She began then closed her eyes. "Look, Theon, I didn't mean to…."

"Don't. Just don't."

An awkward silence filled the room. A very uncomfortable one. Yara, who usually had something to say, floundered with a way to get around this. It was not clear what exactly could be done to completely get past that hard part of Theon's life. He had stopped sniveling and crying like a bitch, but he was not even close to the cocky, arrogant boy that had returned home to blast their father for being mean to him.

"I'm heading out tonight," he finally said, taking the initiative to break the silence. "Grey Worm arrived and said that Daenerys wants the Unsullied ferried to Massey's Hook. The Dothraki are getting restless and she feels it's time to start getting all the forces on the move."

"About damn time," Yara muttered, "We've been sitting here for a month now, and we haven't even got the war underway."

"Aye," he replied. "I'll be taking the _Sea Bitch_."

"Became attached to her, eh?" Yara asked with a smile. It had been originally given to Theon as an insult from their father.

Theon shrugged. "She's the only one I have any interest in anymore," he said. He stepped forward to the back window that Yara had built into the back of the ship. He rested his hands on her bed and leaned forward, letting all his weight filter into the bed.

"A copper penny for your thoughts," Yara asked, leaning back into her chair and crossing her arms.

Theon took a slow breath. "I have a sense of what it's like to be a woman," he said. "I always wondered why women weren't so obsessed with sex like men were. Then I…..well….ever since….it….happened and once I lost Reek, I suddenly found myself clearer of mind. The loss of my favorite toy cleared me in so many ways, and I don't get wrapped up in such things anymore."

"Don't believe the rumors," Yara advised him. "When women say they don't dwell on sex all the time, they're fucking lying. Only thing is, men are more open in their desires."

The words 'my favorite toy' did not sit well with Yara. That was something Ramsey had written in his letter to Balon, their father. There was so many words he used, that at times she couldn't wonder who was really talking. Was it Theon, the broken boy who was finally overcoming the trauma? Or was it Ramsey Bolton, using Theon's body like a puppet?

She would take that pain from him! Theon had loved Yara far more than her older brothers when they were still alive. Yara missed the carefree boy, the one who dared stick his hand down her breeches and feel her wet spot. Where was the Greyjoy, and where was the bitch in Ramsey's kennels? And was there any real difference now?

"You know what I want Yara?" he asked, not turning to her.

"What?" Yara asked. Theon never really talked to her about what he wanted.

"I want to leave Westeros behind," he said. "I want to get on a ship and sail away from here. I want to settle in a place far away. I have heard tales about the lands in Sothoryos that are far enough away where one can just sit and get lost, where troubles melt away."

"I thought you were wanting to help me get the throne," Yara asked.

"I do," he assured her, turning back to her. She could see the haunted look in his eyes. Eyes that had seen too much, far too much. Eyes that promised that he could slip back into madness if not careful. "I really do. But….at the same time….there is no healing here in Westeros for me. It's out there. Somewhere."

Yara pushed back her chair, stood up, and walked over to him. Curling her fists, she wrapped her arms around her baby brother. She held him close, feeling the scratchy whiskers of his facial hair against her cheek. Was there really nothing that she could do for him? She did not want to think he wasn't man enough to heal himself. But he did also seemed to be in a place that he may never completely heal.

"When you come back," she said, talking into his ears, "We'll talk about this."

"Yes," he said, pulling back. "I think I'm ready. Ready to talk."

The moon was only a sliver in the night, although it was enough to cast light onto the water of Blackwater Bay. Yara leaned against the railing of the wheel deck, staring at the lights of Dragonstone and the small village at the western end of the island. Three black shapes arose from the citadel and flew southwards, the direction her brother's ships had gone, laden heavy with Unsullied.

 _Must be hunting,_ Yara thought to herself. _I wish I could hunt like you magnificent bastards. But no, it's the ocean for me._

A thousand ships, all that she commanded. Yara was happy, happy with what could the possibilities be with a fleet this size. She could have raided all of Essos and even if she lost a third of her fleet, she'd have more loot and salt wives for her men then she could do anything with. She'd be a Queen of the Seas.

What autonomy would she have as Queen of the Iron Islands? Very little, of that she was sure. Daenerys Targaryen had already been a bitch and stripped away most of their livelihood just to fit her perfect version of the world. Yara had no illusions of what would be her lot in the new Realm.

"Tell me if there is anything of note," she told the sailor at the wheel and turning on her feet, walked down the steps to the main deck.

There were only a few crew on the deck, carrying out their nightly duties. Sounds from the hold told of revelry down below. An attempt to keep the men's minds occupied as they were bored out of their skulls. Not that she could blame them. They came to fight, not sit around.

She entered her cabin, and with little preamble, began to strip out of her leather clothes. First the boots came off, which she tossed into a corner. Then her tunic which she dropped on the floor next to her bed. Then off came the breeches. She took a moment to admire herself in her looking glass. She had paid the iron price for it, killing the captain of a ship from the Shield Islands that were dominated by the Reach and raping the captain's wife. She had fought fiercely, that one, but Yara had prevailed.

She climbed into the bed and pulled the blanket over her. Looking through the window, she could see the stars and moon as waves, as if they were water. With that, she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

 _Yara stood in Pyke, looking up at the castle, settled on several sheer cliffs that jutted from the sea. As she looked at it, a shadow by her side brought her attention. She started as a woman was right at her shoulder._

 _"Are you going?" the woman asked. The woman was odd, her mouth with three sets of teeth, her normal set to the front, and each other going back into her mouth._

 _"Going?" Yara asked._

 _"You must go," the woman said, "Everyone is going."_

 _"Where?" Yara asked but the woman placed her fingers on her lips. Her fingers were elongated, with five joints instead of three._

 _A Man appeared behind the woman, and looking, Yara noticed something strange. The man's arms were stuck into the woman's shoulder blades, nothing below his wrists showing. The man shushed her loudly._

 _"He won't like it if you ask questions," he told Yara. "We all must go."_

 _Yara was about to ask but the woman stepped forward with the man, going up to the path that led to the castle. She then spotted that there was a large procession that was going towards the castle, the men all attached to the women the same way these two had been._

 _Yara fell into step in the midst of this procession, wondering what was bringing all these freaks to Pyke. They were muttering words that at first she didn't understand. Yara understood she was in a dream. She had trained herself to be able to tell the difference between reality and dreams. She could have awoken herself, but she was drawn towards the castle along with the rest. She wanted to see what was at the end._

 _As she passed underneath the portcullis and entered the castle proper, the mutterings started to become clear as the mutterers voices rose in pitch and volume. She began now to understand what they were saying. It wasn't gibberish as she might have thought, but actual words._

 _No, not words. A mantra. Chanting, like religious fanatics._

 _"Crows Eye. Crows Eye. Crows Eye. Crows Eye."_

 _She followed the procession to the throne room. There were guards there, letting people pass by. These were no ordinary guards though. They weren't even ordinary men. Their shoulders were slouched forward and their backs humped. Black raven's feathers stuck out between the breastplate and the chainmail and their mouths were elongated and sharp, like beaks. Above their eyes was another eye, glowing red and far more penetrating than human eyes. They fixed on her as she walked between them._

 _They hissed words to her. "Usurper. Non-believer. Blasphemer. Unworthy. Unclean. Fucker of men and women."_

 _Yara shuddered, but nothing prepared her for what she saw next. The throne was right before her, and Euron was sitting on the throne. Yet….he was more monstrous then the guards and people that went through his doors. Tentacles floated behind him, swings to engulf the heads of the worshipers who were now screaming his name. The suckers drained the life from the worshippers until they were husks, then raised their bodies, now nothing more than shriveled skin pulled taut around bones, onto a pile of corpses at the edge of the room._

 _A third eye was on his head, a blue fire that pierced the darkness. His skin had coral growing on it, and seaweed was draped over his shoulders. He extended his arms out to Yara. His fingers had small hooks curling out of them._

 _"Welcome, my brothers-daughter," he called to her. "How do you enjoy my kingdom?"_

 _"What is going on?" she asked, looking around in horror. His skin was becoming more and more pale, but he seemed to grow larger with every new body that bent the knee to him, chanting his name._

 _"They have come to understand that I am the Drowned God," he said with a maniacal look in his eyes. "I am the Storm" at that a massive fork of lightning split the night and the walls seemed to tremble from the force of the thunder clap. "I am the Kraken that devours ships!" Wood splintered and broke, and through the fireplace she saw the wall had fallen away, and she could see ships cracking as several of his tentacles turned and snaked out, latching and cracking them like eggs._

 _"Have you come to become my Yara?" he asked, holding his arms out still, beckoning her forward. Yet she could smell the rot that was rising from him. This was extremely fucked up and she felt that she needed to wake up. Her method of waking up was to chant the prayer of all Iron Born, "What is Dead May Never Die."_

 _But….she was still in the dream. What the fuck was she doing in the dream still? "What is Dead may never die!" she said again, putting more force into it._

 _"Now, now," Euron tisked at her, water falling from his lips as he did so. "None of that. Did you really think you'd get away from me that easily? You will become my Yara, and you shall come to know me as only a whore as yourself can know anyone."_

 _"No!" she shouted, "What is dead may never die!"_

 _"Very well," Euron said and snapped his fingers._

* * *

She awoke from her dream to find herself sprawled on the floor. Someone was pounding on her door. At the same time, sounds of men shouting and wood cracking filled her ears. What the fuck was going on?

"Yara!" a sailor banged on the door. "We're under attack! Yara….aaaah!"

Yara sprang once into action. Grabbing her breeches she slid into them as fast as possible. Grabbing the tunic, she slid into it as fast as she could. Then, she ran to the boots and grabbing them, hopped on one foot as she tried to slide them on.

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" she spat furiously as she heard steel on steel ringing outside, "Too fucking slow!"

The ship rocked as something hard hit it. She was thrown against the wall of her cabin, and her sword went falling onto the floor. Jarred, she wasn't out of action just yet. She yanked on the other boot. Reaching down and grabbing her sword, she swung open the door, and the sailor who had been banging on her door collapsed into the room, his head rolling away from his body.

She grimaced as she jumped over him, and into a mass of humanity. A massive ship had rammed itself against the _Black Wind_ and there was fighting as several men, in true Iron Born fashion, had leapt onto her ship when the two had collided and were fighting her crew. It was hard to tell who was who, as a ship burned behind them.

Although, the man screaming as he charged her was definitely not one of hers. She saw his axe swinging from a mile away, and leaning back, she was able to avoid being decapitated pretty easily. The man on the other hand, was not so fortunate. She drove her sword straight through his guts and pulled it back out, doing it at an angle to cut open his flesh further. The man screamed ass he dropped both intestines and axe and dropped to his knees. His hands tried to press the intestines back in, but to no avail.

"What happened?" she asked, running up to the First Mate, a man named Temoon. He had an assailant turned around and pressed against his chest as he drove his dagger into the man's throat.

"It's your damned uncle, that's who!" Temoon growled, pulling the dagger out and his victim dropping to the deck. "He's rammed us twice!"

"How do you know it's my uncle and not someone else?" she asked, although she didn't think she necessarily believed it could be anyone else.

"Does anyone else you know have _that_ as their insignia?" he demanded. He pointed to the sails, and even in the darkened night, she could see the Kraken…..with a red eye that seemed to glow in the center. Was it possible she wondered? Did she really see him in her…..no, that was bullocks!

"Pull us out! Get us into open waters while we still have a chance!" Temoon shouted.

"No!" Yara shouted, "Signal the other ships to move to flank him! He can't have more than….."

"The ships from the Reach have turned on us!" Temoon shouted. Archers were firing burning arrows from the _Black Wind_ at the attacking ships. "Our lines have been broken, Yara. We need to get out here while we still have a…."

"Brace for impact!" an archer shouted, his voice managing to carry over the din of battle.

She was nearly thrown off her feet as the ship hit her, cracking into the wood. _"I am the Kraken that devours ships!"_ Then, a massive corvus shaped like a sea serpent snapped down, crushing a female Iron Born who was too slow to get out of the way. The _Black Wind_ was locked with the _Silence_ and Iron Born poured onto the ship, with Euron at the head. He swung his axe like a dervish, his first three strikes taking down three of her crew.

Her bosun led a counterattack, his fist crumpling a man's face. Yara jumped forward as well, deflecting a sword from a warrior with a leather cap instead of a helmet. Pushing aside his sword, she kicked him in the balls. The man collapsed, grabbing his balls and reversing her grip, plunged it down into his back between the shoulder blades.

"O Yara!" Euron shouted in a sing-song voice. "Did I not say that you could not get away from me that easily?" As he spoke, he swung his axe upwards and caught her bosun between the legs and she saw his testicles fall out along with other bodily gore.

"You are going to service me, Yara!" Euron continued saying in his sing-song voice. "I am going to squirt my seed into your belly and make a true Iron Born. O Yara! Come closer and get to know me, as only a whore as yourself can know anyone."

 _How the fuck is he saying what was in my dream?_

She charged him, and he smiled as he parried her blows. Back and forth they struggled, his axe ringing with every strike. The sound his axe made took her by surprise. It was Valyrian steel! She didn't know they made Valyrian steel axes.

"Like my axe?" Euron asked her, as he swung the axe in a long arch. Yara was forced to jump back, but one of her men lost his leg, the leg coming clean off as Euron came at her, spinning around as he came, holding his axe in one hand and his other arm outstretched. "I am the Drowned God! I am the Storm! I am the Kraken that devours ships?"

Yara went for a stab but he caught her axe and forced it to the ground. His eyes were alit in a fire that only insanity and he gave a toothy grin, like a cat that has caught a mouse.

"Or did you really think I would lie in your dream of all places?" he asked.

Her eyes grew wide and that's when he struck. Raising his fist, he punched her hard in the nose. The force of the blow caused her to let go of the sword which fell onto the ground. He came at her with another swing and she dodged it, not so much by effort but by chance. She continued backing up, Euron continuing his advance.

He swung down, and would have cloven her from head to toe. But she caught the axe in both hands. Laughing at her, his spittle flew in her face as he bore down on her, his greater upper body strength forcing her to her knees.

"I grow bored of this scenery," he sniffed, continuing his sing-song voice. "Why don't we take this down below."

With that, he kicked her hard. She fell backwards….and tumbled down the flight of wooden stairs to the hold. She rolled right into an Iron Born who was trying to climb up the stairs, and he fell on top of her. It took a second to get untangled, but the Iron Born stood up.

"You aren't my Yara," Euron said, and Yara looked up just in time to see the man's skull split in two and a massive geyser of blood erupted from the top of his head. From lifeless fingers dropped a spear he had been holding. Yara caught it and scrambled to her feet, pointing the spear at Euron as he yanked the axe out of the head and with a swipe of his hand flopped the man to his side. "My Yara!"

She held the spear before her, giving herself a couple feet of distance between herself and the madman. He rolled his eyes. He held up a finger and wagged it at her.

"If a sword didn't stop me, what makes you think a spear will?" he asked and came at her, swiping his axe in an effort to cut her spear in two.

The hold was tight and compact with pillars and barrels at odd places. In the confined quarters, her spear was excellent and she used it to jab at Euron. Euron on the other hand couldn't get the space he needed to land an effective blow, his swings being restricted to narrower strikes and the pillars and barrels getting in his way.

Yara led him further into her hold. Wood was splintered and she could see where the heavy spikes of the corvus had punctured the ceiling of the hold. Then she had him! She got behind a barrel and with a hand, pushed it down. It started a cascade of barrels that fell on Euron. Somehow, he managed to keep from falling, although he was forced to raise his arms to protect himself from their weight. With the momentarily loss of momentum, she stabbed forward, lancing. She was aiming for his head, but at the last moment, Euron noticed his danger and moved his head to the right.

It was a moment too late, and her spear-head drove into her right eye. Euron screamed as blood erupted from his eyesocket but even as he did so, he grabbed the spear before the head had even gone a full inch in. With inhuman strength, he pushed back, blood gushing down his right side of his face and into his mouth. He lowered the spear and yanked it, and Yara, forward.

Yara slammed right into his chest and with a mad gleam in his one remaining eye, he head-butted her. The force of the blow staggered them both, but Yara took a greater impact. He yanked the spear from her hands and used it to knock her down.

"Bastard!" Yara heard Temoon shout and Euron was delayed for just a few seconds as he turned to him. Yara took the opportunity to do one thing she had never thought she would do. Run! She heard clatter of steel on steel as she ran to the very back of the ship, where the men slept and looked for anything that would help her fight off the mad man.

"You aren't my Yara," Yara could hear from the back as she tore through packs and beds, looking for any weapon that could help her. "Therefore, you don't need to be kept alive."

Yara heard a sound she never expected to hear. Temoon screaming. "You should have waited until you stabbed me to make yourself known," Euron was narrating for Yara's benefit. "Then you wouldn't have that spear in your foot. Pinning you in place. Where should I start first?"

There was a clash of more steel on steel as her First Mate fought a valiant battle. Although Yara knew it was pointless. Every weapon that was on the ship was up above, fighting to save it. There was nothing, except packs and dirty clothes. A crumbs and scraps of food. But nothing to help her.

"Oh my. Your hand did look like you were rather attached to it. Don't worry though! I will put it to good use. No, no, my dear friend. I won't use it to pleasure My Yara. This hand however….there we go, that didn't come off to hard, no was it? This one I will make it so I make the bald man cry, if you get my meaning. Now, let's remove your foot. Trust me, you won't be walking anymore after this."

"Stop! Stop!" Temoon was screaming.

"Stop, stop? That doesn't sound like an Iron Born. You sound like a proxy bitch from King's Landing. What do you say Yara? Shall we see if he has Iron Born guts, or if they are those of mortal men?"

Temoon screamed and Yara could do nothing. She pressed herself against the back wall. She could see as her First Mates guts were being pulled out one by one, and Euron toss them over his shoulder. "No, no, this will do no good. You are not real Iron Born."

"O Yara!" Euron shouted in his sing-song voice and turned to her. Blood was dripping from him as her first mate fell to the floor, dead long before he hit it. "Come now! It is time for you to become closer to me than niece and uncle. Guess what though! If you are really good, we'll see about Theon joining us! It might be hard, being cockless and all."

He was soon on her, and grabbed her by the hair. She couldn't fight as he pulled her hair violently back and marched her forward. He made sure to walk her as closely to her murdered First Mate. Temoon had been completely dismembered, bits of him scattered all over the floor. Up the stairs he marched her and out onto the deck.

Burning fires lit the night, so much fire that it was almost like daylight outside.

"This, is the last time you will ever be a free woman," he said. Yara's heart broke at the carnage her uncle had wrought and all the carnage he was going to unleash. At that moment, she got a glimpse what it must have been to be Theon. She knew what Euron was going to do to her, and she could do nothing about it. "You should have pledged fealty to me in the dream while you had a chance."

A demonic scene played as the smells of blood, piss and shit filled her nostrils, fires of burning ships filled her eyes and the insane laughter of the Crows Eye filled her ears.

 _To be continued in **Episode 6: The Gift**_ _which will start on Wednesday the 12th._

* * *

 ** _Episode Notes:_**

 ** _-Next episode will be shorter but no less action packed!_**

 ** _-I originally was going to focus on the main cast, but I decided as I was writing to focus on either minor characters who hadn't had their own POV chapters (such as Yara and Euron), new characters (such as Arianne Martel) or characters we hadn't seen in a couple of episodes (like Sam and Arya)._**

 ** _-The last two chapters were written in the same day within three hours. They were a combined 14 pages. That's a lot of typing guys!_**

 ** _-Someone accused me of the Davos chapter being crackfic. I hate crack fic, although I know that the whole Monty Python sketch I had played out in the Davos chapter was incredibly corny._**

 ** _-In the books, Arianne never loved Ser Arys. She was just using her beauty to seduce him as part of the Dornish plot, and basically resulted in his death in the books (along with Myrcella losing an ear). However, it's nice to see true love have it's day in the sun!_**

 ** _-Now...the Eragon plotline. No, I did not originally plan to have two hedge knights that were the sons of Morzan. No...this is not a crossover, not in the traditional sense of the word. As much as I liked the Arya/Hot Pie scene, it really bugged me that that was the very first time she had heard about her brother Jon being the King in the North, especially when she was both Lord Walder Frey for two full-weeks and a serving girl there at the Twins for at least a full week beforehand. She couldn't hear about it while literally being in the North, but Hot Pie could hear about clear down in basically the lower half of the Realm?_**

 ** _Yes, I did address it earlier on about her knowing the current state of the politics in the North. However another thing is how she so easily was convinced to turn her back on her quest for vengeance. No, there should have been more to get her going back in the direction to home. How better to have her searching out someone who had once visited Winterfell in her past and helped her decide what she wanted to be? So, sure, Eragon is a pointless namedrop, but they aren't the same people (just similar names and backstories) and are more of a way to help push Arya back to her humanity._**

 ** _So no, there is no actual Saphira and they don't actual know magic. The towns folk (which Palisade Village is an actual place in Westeros) are quiet correct that much of it is lies._**

 ** _-The Lovecraft dream sequence where Yara sees Euron on the Salt Throne in a weird situation, is based off of a vision Euron has in the released chapters of "The Winds of Winter". Many things are still the same, such as his third eye, the kraken tentacles and so forth. Now, Euron himself can't project into other's dreams, but he has a Red Priest of R'hollor, and we all know they can do some messed up shiz._**

 ** _-Will Jorah survive? Will he die in the snow? Well, his story isn't done yet!_**

 ** _-Originally, I was planning on having Melisandre and Arya met on the King's Road. Arya was going to kill Melisandre after Melisandre tells her, "I knew this day would come." Then after Arya moves on, Melisandre would awaken, the Red God having resurrected her because of her destiny. Yet, I couldn't make it reasonable work, so instead, I have her and Davos tag-team Daenerys._**

 ** _-In the books, Daenerys has sex a couple of times with her handmaidens. She starts masturbating in book two, and one of her handmaidens hears her. So, she goes over and "helps" her out. That's what I'm referring to in the scene where she's snapping at Melisandre about, "Just because I experimented doesn't mean anything!" Infact, Daenerys is actually bisexual in the books._**

 ** _-Originally, the Melisandre chapter was going to have Davos basically blowing their only chance to win Daenerys because he couldn't keep his temper under control and reveal what Melisandre did to Princess Shireen and Daenerys was going to freak out. But Davos is far more savvy then that and he can control his temper, especially if he sees an opportunity to gain the aid his King requires._**


	35. Epi 6: The Gift, Ch 1: Cersei

**Episode 6: The Gift**

 ***Cersei***

"I must say, I have seen efficiency before, but this completely put everything I've seen before to shame," Tycho Nestoris said. The Iron Banker ran his fingers along the edges of gold bars, coins of a uniform shape, copper pennies that were bent in places. The amount of money in these ships was enough to easily crush entire villages under their weight.

"And you say this is all from one _single_ castle?" Tycho asked, picking up a few copper pennies and rubbing them between his fingers.

Cersei tried not to appear too smug but she couldn't help feeling elated. In one fell swoop, she had done what no man before her had ever done. She was paying off a ten million debt to the Iron Bank. When the news had come that the Iron Bank was calling in a tenth of the debt, the Small Council had been absolutely beside itself at the enormity of the task.

Those ignoramuses had no idea had liberating it was when entire castles and families were destroyed, allowing their gold to be used for the good of the Realm. _Her_ Realm.

"Yes," she told the Banker.

"And you are sure there has been an accurate accounting of everything?" Tycho asked, turning to her and raising an eyebrow. "I'd dearly hate for there to be an accounting error."

"I had two dozen tax collectors all take careful accounting of all the money that was gathered," Cersei assured him. She turned to Lord Commander Uphill, and motioned to him.

Uphill pointed to four stacks of leather-bound ledgers. Tycho stepped forward to them, glanced at the Captain and his rather large nose. He glanced down and with a dramatic sigh and flourish of his hands, he rested them upon one of the volumes. He opened it, and took a long and well-trained look at several pages. Slowly he turned each page, and Cersei didn't mind.

 _Let the smug little man have his moment,_ the Queen thought to herself with dark humor. _He'll see that no one fucks with me. Not anymore. And I deliver my promises and pay my debts._

"Everything looks in order," Tycho finally announced after several long minutes. "Again, Your Grace, I am indeed surprised by just how efficient you dealt with the debt. It is sad that we must end a long and profit laced venture that we had. The Iron Bank so did love it's interest payments from the Iron Throne."

"Do not take insult if I say that I will not miss it," Cersei said, her voice that fake-sweetness that she had so well-honed over years of playing second fiddle to every cock-centric minded fool of the Baratheon and Lannister families.

Tycho waved his hand back and forth as if swatting a fly. "I do not," he assured her. "You see, Your Grace, few people love the Iron Bank. Oh, they love us well enough when they need money. But giving it back, that's when the honeymoon of our relationship ends."

"Tell me," Cersei asked, "Do you have a wife?"

"No, Your Grace," Tycho shook his head. "I do not have the taste needed for the female sex."

Cersei frowned, not taking his meaning. Then, like a thunder-bolt, she suddenly understood! He liked to fuck with other men. At least there won't be any little smug shits that would come from his seed. Perhaps the Gods _did_ exist and have some measure of justice. Well, in that case, she wouldn't have to ask him about what he knew about honeymoons.

"If I may, Your Grace," he continued. "If you have any ventures in mind that you would like help with, the Iron Bank would be more than happy to loan you money."

Cersei gave him a sweet smile. Oh, she bet they would. She would not however allow the Realm to be plunged into such an unfathomable debt. Not ever again. She was not Robert, who cared nothing about the resposnibilties of his position. She wasn't Tywin Lannister, whose wheeling and dealing was always meant to hold off actually _paying_ the family debts, unless it was to further his own ambitions.

She wasn't Joffrey, that vicious little bastard. She had loved her children, but she knew what a little monstrous shit he was. She wasn't Tommen, who was seduced by what was between a whore-dressing slut's legs and the potion-laced honey tongue of religious fanatics.

No, she was Cersei Fucking Lannister, the First of Her Fucking Name. She would be the wisest ruler that had ever lived, and the most ruthless to her enmies that the world had ever seen. Daenerys might have dragons, but Cersei had one thing that was superior to all that. She had been raised by Tywin Lannister. She knew cunning and had been raised in civilization, not the Dothraki broken whore that not led dragons.

"I do have adventures in mind," she finally answered him. "Yet there is only one thing I wish to know, at least for the moment. Something that perhaps you could help me with."

"Oh?" Tycho asked, his eyes seeming to light up like the sun rising to the east. "What is that?"

"How much do the Faceless Men cost?"

He frowned as he processed the request. "It depends on whom you want killed," he finally said. "All Faceless Men have the same price. But the price is dependent on the target. I heard Lady Crane was killed not too long ago. She was an actress of some renown. The cost for her was two hundred Gold Dragons. Farmers are about fifteen copper pennies. Children under the age of sixteen years are three gold dragons. Minors nobles are two thousand gold dragons. Nobles of middle importance range from four to six thousand, depending on male or female."

"What about Kings and Princes and Princesses?" Cersei pressed.

A smile curled around Tycho lips as he understood at long last the question. "A king is twenty-five thousand gold dragons," he said. "Princes are fifteen thousand and princesses are ten thousand. Would you like me to contact them on your behalf?"

"No," Cersei said, a little too firmly. The wide-eyes of Tycho made her realize just how strong she had delivered her response. "I mean," she said, toning it down. "That I will able to myself. If the need should arise."

"Of course," Tycho inclined his head.

* * *

Cersei walked along the high street that ran along the water-side of the city. She was up in the Red Keep, walking the battlements that face the sea. A great fleet was departing, many ships bearing the Iron Born kraken to destroy any remaining ships that might try to hinder the progression of the treasure fleet now heading for Braavos.

Not all were heading for Braavos. Roughly a tenth of the fleet remained behind. One was the _Silence._ Yet most of them were simply ships loaded up with all the excess gold that had exceeded the entire debt. There was only a hundred thousand gold in there, but if she was cunning enough, she wouldn't have to use it. That was one thing that people didn't realize about the Game of Thrones. You had to think in three different dimensions, plan not for the next step, but three steps down the road. That's why she had been able to trounce the little usurper with every move they had made so far.

Now, all she had to hope for was that Jaime did in the Dorne. Those sun-baked fools could only find disaster for facing against the might of the Lannisters. She did feel that her control over Jaime was beginning to waver. She would have to do something about that. Jaime was easily manipulated. She had made him give up his entire claim to Casterly Rock just for a piece of what she could give him. How much harder would it be to keep him on a tight leash?

It was that whore Brienne who was to blame. That massive monster of a woman. Ever since she had entered Jaime's life, he had never seemed the same. There had been that one day, at the foot of the altar where their son was laid in state. He had taken so hard, she had felt her nether regions were going to rip apart and she'd be split in two. After that…..

"How did it go, Your Grace?" Qyburn asked, his hands rubbing together. The air was steadily getting chillier. Within two months, the temperature had dropped by at least ten degrees.

"It went well," Cersei replied. "He tried to weasel me into making another outrageous loan with the Iron Bank. Bah! Does he really think I'm such a stupid sow?"

"None who know you would ever make that mistake," Qyburn said, seeming to mewl like a cat as they walked. Behind them the ever-looming presence of the Mountain nearly cast a shadow over them both. Cersei wasn't particularly a tall woman. Her glorious golden hair being cropped so short had not helped matters any in that regard. Yet it had seemed that the loss of her hair which she had been so proud of made her seem more regal. As if the loss of hair seemed to accentuate her royal presence.

"How many scorpions did you give my brother?" Cersei asked, stopping where several stone vases had been worked into the walls, flower growing from the soil.

"A dozen, Your Grace," he answered.

A dozen. Seemed like overkill. Yet she assumed she couldn't argue with the virtues of being over-prepared as opposed to under-prepared. Her brother would use them to great effect. That she was certain of.

"How many do we have here still in King's Landing?" she asked, running her fingers through the yellow flowers. Yellow, just like the Rose of Highgarden. And look what terrible fate had befallen them.

"Ten," he replied. "We are working on more, but it will take time."

"You know what the fatal flaw of House Tyrell was?" Cersei asked.

"I cannot say I do, no," the Hand replied.

"House Tyrell's words were ' _Growing Strong_ '," Cersei replied with a scoff. Her fingers wrapped around a flower and pulled it out of the vase. Dirt tumbled back to the vase, while a few hung stubbornly to the flowers steam, via its roots. "Everything about them was a long con. They spent years, decades, centuries even. Scheming and plotting, taking little real direct action against anyone. Not until the time was right. Once they were strong enough to charge in and take over the Throne."

"Some would call that admirable, Your Grace," Qyburn nodded with balding head. "And wise."

"There is wisdom with keeping to the shadows," Cersei agreed, grabbing a petal and slowly tearing it off. "I truly believe the reason they had so much money stored up in Highgarden was to allow them to one day sweep in and pay off the national debt. Then, with the Crown no longer in debt, the masses would turn to the Tyrells as if they were saviors. Do you know the problem though with playing the long game?"

Qyburn shook his head. Cersei had meant it as rhetorical, but it was good for the affirmation that her Hand was paying attention. Perhaps he would learn something useful. A glimpse into her divine scheme. A dynasty to last a thousand generations. Fuck Maggie the Frog's prophecy!

"Once you decide to come into the light," Cersei continued, now on her third petal. "You must not let up. You must throw everything in. The problem with the Tyrell's is they did not engage on all fronts. They held much in reserve. They could have pulled off a coup the likes that had never been seen. Yet two of the brothers hid in Highgarden. The father was an oaf that was easily manipulated. And the son….ah, Loras Tyrell, he allowed his flaws to be public knowledge, and that resulted in the counterattack that broke them."

At last the last petal was torn off and she discarded the flower into the wind. Well, there was no wind, but that didn't matter one iota. No, what matters was what she was saying.

She turned to Qyburn, seeing him looking out towards her fleet that lay anchored. She smiled and pointed to them, keeping his attention focused.

"I want our scorpions placed on each ship," she told Qyburn. "As many as can have one. When she flies off in a rage to counter my brother, which that bitch most assuredly will, we will take Dragonstone from her. Then, we will have her cut off from her ancestral home, bristling with weapons that can kill her children. She will be in a land hostile to her. We will grind the very soul from the Mother of Whores."

Qyburn smiled as he saw her grand vision. Now he understood, Jaime was bait in an elaborate trap to destroy Daenerys Targaryen. At Dragonstone, her dragons could just sit there and breath fire, bathing any attacking force with fire and flame. Yet, with her gone, Dragonstone was not nearly as defensible as she though. Then, once it was filled with scorpions, she would be unable to land home.

The last harvest before the winter set in was gathered. Even with the temperate climates of the south, Winter was generally noted for the decrease in the amount of crops that could be grown. It was roughly cut down by a full third. How would she fed her Dothraki? By raiding the villages of the common-folk that she claimed so fervently?

Oh yes, Cersei had heard all the fucking lies that the little bitch preached in Mereen. Where was this justice when she murdered men just because of their class and station in life? That's right, this justice were in the same place that her lies came from; shit.

"We most certainly can, Your Grace," Qyburn finally answered her.

"See that it does get done," Cersei told him, turning away from the flowers she had just demolished and began to walk away. "We have a war to win and not much time to do it in."


	36. Epi 6, Ch 2: Bran

***Bran***

A knock at the door made Bran turn his gaze from the fire. There was something about fire that always dream his attention. He couldn't help at times but just to stare at the flames for hours on end. His brother and sister found him very odd now, and indeed, Sansa seemed so off-put by Bran and his abilities that she seemed at times to be avoiding him completely. That was one of many reasons he enjoyed the sight of the flames. They danced, they swayed, and they crackled.

At times, he could almost _see_ things in the fire. Yet the knocking at the door continued, seeming to be demanding nothing less than his full attention.

"Yes?" he called to the door.

The door opened, and the well-meaning face of Maester Wolkan peered in. He entered the room, carrying a bundle in his arms. A thick blanket was wrapped around the bundle, although whatever it was, it was long.

"How fare you today, my prince?" Wolkan asked, looking down at his crippled lord.

"Cold," Bran answered truthfully. "I never truly appreciated the warmth of summer days until my legs stopped working. Now….." he waved a hand in a vague gesture, "they're always cold. Can't seem capable of warming them."

"Ah yes," the maester nodded his head knowingly. "According to the medical books of the Citadel, the reason that happens is that blood warm the body. Yet the warmth is only transmutable through the spine. It acts like a regulator, you might call it. When one suffers an accident like you, my prince, even if the back is set perfectly, it severs the ability of the spine to regulate heat to the rest of the body below the point the break happened."

Bran was amazed by that. _The spine regulates heat!_ He had never even thought of that, but now he thought about it, why wouldn't it? If the spine was connected to everything, as he seemed to believe since that's what it felt like, it made too much sense to be ignored!

If the spine regulated heat, did it also regulate other things as well? "A question, if you wouldn't mind answering," he said. He motioned for the maester to take a seat.

"Of course," Wolkan said, taking the offered seat, which was the edge of his bed.

"Does the spine also regulate my ability to father children?" he asked, "I'm paralyzed from the hip on down. Does that mean that I won't be able to have children?"

Wolkan chuckled uncomfortably. His face began to turn a bright shade of red. "No, my prince," he said. "You see, your…..your….manhood, we'll just call it that, does not need regulating. It acts of its own accord at times. I am just curious, can you feel it?"

"Yes," Bran remarked.

"You see, the question you ask about is if your back also controls the seed of life," Wolkan said, continuing his education. "That is not the case. They say that manhood's have their own minds, which the stones technically act as. That's why you will get…..well….stiff at random times, especially at your age. Your manhood is capable of making the seed on its own. So, if you have a special lady in mind that you wish to have children, it's very possible."

Bran seemed to draw into himself, thinking about that. Yes, he did have a special lady. Only problem was, she hadn't responded to the letter Bran had left, bearing his feelings for her. He had felt supremely silly doing so, but what needed to be done was done. He could have spied on her, looking in from the ravens that Maester Lexxa kept, but he felt that it would be an unwelcome intrusion.

Meera also had the sight, to a very small degree. He didn't want risking getting caught doing it either. He felt she would probably be able to tell. No, better to respect her privacy.

"What is that?" he asked, shaking off the amazement that he had felt at all that he learned. He indicated with his head.

"Ah!" Wolkan said, brightening at the change of topic. Relief seemed to ooze from him at the chance to get away from the other topic. "If you please, I have made some things for you."

He undid the cloth bundle, and in his arms were two sets of straps, six straps in each set, set around wooden frames that had joints near the middle. Underneath the straps were long wooden poles. Wolkan stood up, laid the long poles on the bed and approached with the strap sets.

"May I?" he asked.

Bran nodded his head. Wolkan bent between Bran's legs and grabbing one leg, took one of the strap sets. Now Bran understood that they were leg braces. He could feel Wolkan moving his leg, but he couldn't actually _feel_ them. It was more of the motion of his legs moving back and forth.

"These are similar to what Maester Luwin made me after I first fell," Bran remarked. "Yet they were for riding. Well….it was actually that saddle maker who did so. Yet it was Luwin who set him on the task. Tyrion Lannister gave the plans."

"These are much more versatile," Wolkan said with no small amount of pride. He moved the other set. "You see the small lever the is push out from your knee joint?"

Bran glanced and saw that a small piece of wood was jutting forth. "Yes," he acknowledged.

Bran could feel his other leg being moved. "That lever, if you push down, will lock the brace in any position you desire," he informed him. "Go ahead and use your hands to straighten your legs then push the lever down."

Bran did so, and soon his leg was straight, or as straight as he could get it with one hand. Grabbing the lever, he pushed down until it caught on something inside. He glanced at Wolkan who was finishing strapping his other leg. The maester beamed at his own ingenuity.

Bran let go of the leg, and it fell down to the ground….and held it's straight form. Excitedly, he moved his hands to the other leg, straightened it, and locked it in place. They were both straight, and he looked down with a smile at them. It was a pleasant fiction to be sure, but he couldn't help but with his mind's eye remove the braces and see his legs as working, full of vigor as when he was a young boy, ignoring his mother's commands to not climb.

"I also made these for you as well," Wolkan said, and picking up the two poles from the bed, held them out to Bran.

These weren't poles, he realized. They were crutches, with wide and padded arm rests and well-craved hand grips in the middle. He glanced up at Wolkan, not quite sure why he'd need crutches. Yet by the way Wolkan was grinning, he assumed there must be a reason.

"With these braces locked," the older man explained, "You can use these crutches to walk." Bran's eyes went wide as he looked with new appreciation at the crutches and braces. "It won't be true walking, you must understand. But with training of your body, you can you the braces to set your feet and the crutches can move you forward to the next one. Your Prince, you won't be bound to people carrying you or chairs anymore. You will be just as capable of doing just as much as anyone else can."

"Thank you," Bran said barely able to say the words.

The maester held up his hands as if it were no big deal. "It's the least I can do for your brother," he assured Bran, "Your brother, he's a far gentler and understanding lord than the Boltons."

"I would assume so," Bran said, admiring the crutches and braces. "You were there when Ramsey stabbed his father in the back. He told you to tell everyone that your father was poisoned by his enemies. You didn't want to say it, but they pressed you and you could see the madness in Ramsey's eyes."

Wolkan said nothing. Bran did take some pleasure in stumping people with his ability to tell them about their pasts. It did give him an almost godlike complex at times. He smiled amusedly at himself, people could hear him in the past. Did a future him talk to the people of the past, causing them to believe in the Gods?

"Let's practice with these crutches and braces," Wolkan said, breaking into his delusions of grandeur.

* * *

 _"Why haven't you sent the letter to your father yet?" Rhaegar demanded, storming into the chamber and slamming the door behind him. Bran stood in a corner, arms crossed as he saw his aunt Lyanna turning to the Prince. Her eyes were wide with alarm._

 _"I did!" she said to him._

 _"Oh really?" Rhaegar demanded, throwing him arms in the air and stalking up to her. He seemed like a predator, advancing on his prey. "I told you to send the letter, did I not? I told you if you didn't send the letter saying you had come of your own free will, then bad things would befall the Realm."_

 _"I did," Lyanna repeated defensively._

 _"Then why has Robert Baratheon declared war on the throne?" Rhaegar snarled, pointing a finger accusingly at her. "Why has your father called his banners? Why has House Arryn also taken up arms against us?"_

 _"I don't know!" Bran's aunt repeated, holding up her hands defensively. "I've done exactly everything you've told me to do, Rhaegar."_

 _Bran shook his head, angry at his inability to change the situation. He looked at them as they continued to argue, and just to think….to think that this man thought that his aunt was willing participant to her kidnap and rape. The very thought sickened him. Couldn't Rhaegar tell that that Lyanna was desperate to keep him happy? Why would she be desperate if Rhaegar was telling the truth?_

 _Yet, Bran couldn't help but feel that he wasn't getting the full picture. He knew there were pieces missing to his full understanding of the situation. How he had decided to kidnap Lyanna, what decision had driven him to taking her to the Tower of Joy. He'd have to go back further to see more._

 _"Ah," a voice said, tutting its tongue at him. "You are following the silver-haired one again. I don't understand your fascination with him. There are far more important things to be using your visions on."_

 _Bran turned to see the old Child of the Forest sitting on the open window. Bran walked up to him, unconsciously making himself small so he could walk past the two. As he walked, Rhaegar turned and muttering, sauntered over to the bed and sank down onto its edge._

 _"I believe you," Rhaegar was finally saying. "But that doesn't answer why they have raised the banners against House Targaryen."_

 _"To his mind," Lyanna said soothingly, standing up and walking over to his side. She climbed onto the bed behind him and began to rub his shoulders, "Robert can only see that you stole me. Do you think he's one to take that slight lightly?"_

 _"They don't understand," the Dragon Prince growled. "They don't understand what we have."_

 _"Yes, yes," Lyanna was saying, "They don't realize what we have."_

 _He wanted to applaud his aunt for being able to keep up the charade as well as she was. It must have been hard, lying through her teeth, as it wasn't the Stark way. Bran was sick of hearing such filth, although he had to admit, Lyanna had a way of making what she said very convincing. If Bran hadn't known the truth, he might have been convinced of Lyanna's sincerity. However, he had heard the tale a hundred times._

 _"I'm trying to understand why the silver-haired one as you call him, kidnapped my aunt," Bran said to the Child of the Forest. "He was Prince of the entire Realm, heir to the throne itself. Yet, he had to kidnap my aunt."_

 _"Aunt?" the Child asked. "I am not familiar with the term."_

 _"She my father's sister," Bran said, turning to him. He saw the blank look on the Child's face, although he couldn't help but feel that 'Child' had been the wrong term. Especially since this "Child' was old and clearly male. "She is my sire's sister."_

 _"Ah!" the Child snapped his fingers. "I do not clearly understand the terms you use, but she of your sire's brood. That's what we call, I believe you'd call 'siddings'."_

 _"Siblings," Bran corrected. "I am surprised you don't know this. Didn't you ever talk to Blood-Raven?"_

 _The Child shook his head. "Blood-Raven wasn't nearly as malleable as you are," he said._

 _Malleable? What did he mean by that? But before Bran knew, his arms had been clutched in the iron grip of the Child. Bran really hated this part, this sheer aggressiveness on the part of the Child. Yet he knew what would happen next._

 _The Child jumped from the window and Bran followed him and next thing he knew, instead of a long fall, he was on a river bank. Azor Ahai stood at the head of a dozen men, all on horses. These were all grim men, a massive direwolf at Azor Ahai's side._

 _"Men!" he shouted to the group. "I have sent the summons and you alone arrived to do what was needed to be done. I bless you all for it. The night is dark and full of terrors, but we will drive off the dark."_

 _Bran did notice that it was very dark, compared to other times he'd been in the past. He looked up, and the sky he could see beyond the trees was heavy laden with snow. The Long Night had arrived in this part of the land. He didn't exactly know where they were, the lands had changed over the eight thousand years since Azor Ahai had fought off the Long Night._

 _"It will take us just over a week to reach the Long River and another to reach the River of Many Branches," Azor Ahai told the men. "I have forged swords similar to mine for each of you. I have fought the walking dead before, and these weapons do indeed kill them. We seek out the Others and we will kill them."_

 _"You say des blades kill de walking dead," one man with heavy scaring to his jaw from past battles said. "How do you know dat dey will kill de Others? Have you killed one of de Others?"_

 _"Not yet," Azor Ahai promised. "But blood magic has made these weapons. The Children of the Forest are ready and waiting with a small force at the Many Branches and they for certain have means of killing them."_

 _"The thing I want to know is why the Children haven't been able to stop them," one of the other men grunted, a fair hair man that seemed never to have grown a beard. "They have magic, surely they should have been able to stop them."_

 _The other men grumbled their agreement to this. Bran shook his head and turned to the Child. It was his people that had made the Others. It was all their fault. In their own desperation to fight man, they had created a weapon so terrible that none could stop it on their own._

 _"I know I ask much," he said, hanging his head low. "I ask you no more than I have already given myself. Yet…." He raised his head. "There is only one truth I know for certain. If we don't stop them, the whole world would perish! And. We. Must. Not. Allow. That."_

 _He pulled his sword out and held it over his head. It seemed to blaze with flame. "The Night is dark and full of terror!" he shouted and the men drew their own blades and shouted the battle cry. "But the light casts out the darkness!"_

 _With that, the proud warrior turned and sheathing his sword, kicked the sides of his horse with the sides of his feet and with a snort the horse trotted forward, heading north. Bran wasn't able to say what the Long River and River of Many Branches were. He was certain he could have used his sight to find and see what they were called in the present day. Yet he watched them, filled with wonder as the old tales spran to life before his eyes._

 _"Old Nan use to tell me about the Quest of the Last Hero," he said, stepping to where the last horse had been, now pulling far ahead. "He took twelve companions and his hound and went north. It was a direwolf, so not completely true, but the essence was."_

 _"Yes, yes," the Child shook his head. "A foolish venture, if ever there was one. And one filled with sorrow and to this day the last Children who live speak with fear of this quest."_

 _"What do you mean?" Bran asked._

 _"You will see," the Child said, and reaching up, put the tip of his finger on his head._

Bran snapped out of his vision, staring at the wall across from him. He was like a statue, and if anyone had talked to him, they would have gotten a lackluster response. Slowly Bran came to himself, trembling and shaking as he came to himself. It was harder and harder for him to shake off each time he met with the Child of the Forest, whom he didn't even know his name.


	37. Epi 6, Ch 3: Arya

***Arya***

Arya sat next to the fireplace, Eragon looking at the fire. A long pipe stuck from his lips, and he puffed on whatever he was smoking. Arya had never seen this before, and she watched with amazement as small gleams of fire burned in a small cup at the end of the pipe, and smoke rose from the top and out of his lips as he exhaled.

"One of many tasty habits I picked up from my adventures," he said, as he glanced sideways and saw Arya raptly looking at the pipe. He held it out so she could look, but the way he held it signified that he was not about to let it out of his fingers. "This is a smoking pipe. They grow plants in Asshai that when lit can make the best fragrances. Yet, I caution you. If you ever go there and try it, it has an addicting quality. I fear that the addiction caught hold of me as well. To a degree, I need a smoke every three days or I become very irritable."

"As well as any time he's hungry, or we haven't had sex in over a week, or when someone doesn't listen to his tales of…." The older Arya began spouting off in rapid succession.

"Silence woman!" Eragon growled, turning a glare at his lady-wife. "Can't you see I am talking to the little lady?"

The older Arya crossed her arms and raised her chin. She sat in a chair that was carved to resemble a flower. The younger Arya had not seen chairs carved in that fashion, yet it looked fascinating. Everything in the home of the Sons of Morzan (as they called themselves) was utterly fascinating. Everything was carved with exquisite detail, tapestries ran along the upper edges of the wall, detailing scenes of the past, such as plains that dried up over time to the sun. Dragon scales carpeted the floor, hard and rough, but done in a pattern that made the floor look like a rainbow.

"So you have seen dragons?" Arya asked, looking down at the floor. "I remember your tales of finding that dragon called Saphira."

"How long ago was that?" Eragon asked, tapping the stem of the pipe to his chin.

"I don't know," Arya shrugged her shoulders. "I don't remember you saying anything about when you…."

"No, you silly girl," the Hedge Knight said with a shake of his head. "I mean, how long ago was it I visited you in Winterfell?"

She thought back. It had been what, seven-eight years? It was before Rickon was born, that was certain.

"I think my mother was pregnant with Rickon at the time," she replied, "So perhaps eleven years ago."

"Eleven years," Eragon shook his head. "You are what, sixteen, seventeen years? You must have a very good memory to remember that. You say you've been in Braavos for the past two years roughly, and you haven't been in Winterfell before your father lost his head?"

"That's right," Arya replied. She wondered what was so intriguing about that information.

"Let me ask you a question," Eragon asked, leaning back in his chair. "You have asked me many since last night."

"Alright," she nodded her head.

"What are you doing here?"

"What?"

"Why haven't you gone home?" the Hedge Knight asked, giving her a piercing gaze. "You haven't been home in what, seven years? What are you afraid of?"

Arya felt heat rising to her ears. "I'm not afraid," she said flatly.

"Truly?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are you truly not afraid?"

Arya scoffed at the very idea. "Of course not," she said haughtily, "Why should I?"

"Because," he said, leaning forward, keeping her eyes locked in the intensity of his gaze. "You are different. You are not the person you once were when you left. You have become a killer and a murderer. Now, now, don't try arguing that point with me. I have traveled all over the world, and I have seen plenty of people who both have, and haven't killed. You have killed your fair share of people. Many were murdered, because they didn't have a chance to fight back. I can also tell a murderer as well, mi'lady."

"I'm not a murderer," she shook her head angrily. "I am a Faceless Man now. I dispense justice. You want to know why I haven't gone home? Because I saw my father's head cut off his head. I saw my brother's head replaced with the head of his direwolf and the Frays mocked his corpse. I won't go home, because I can't. It's my duty as a Faceless Man to defend the family."

A snort came from behind her. She turned to see Murtagh enter the room, carrying a cup of something that was steaming. He bore a Valyrian steel sword at his hip, something Arya had noticed the night beforehand. He never let his sword out of his sight.

"If you really think the Faceless Men were about defending the honor of noble houses and dispensing justice," he shook his head, "then clearly you either are a liar or weren't paying attention."

"What's that suppose to mean?" she asked, crossing her arms defensively.

"The Faceless Men are assassins first and foremost," Murtagh waved his hand. "You pay them enough, they will kill anyone. I had a friend who was a healer. She was tending her garden when a Faceless Man came up behind her and strangled her with rope. I was too slow to save her. She was a healer, who had done nothing but helped. You know her crime? She helped the wrong lord's son who had become ill."

"There is a list of people," Arya said slowly, "A list of people I have to kill. If I don't kill them, my family will never be safe."

"You mean a list of people that have wronged you," the older Arya said. "I had such a list. My father was killed before I was born and my mother was raped and killed as well. The list was long of people who had wronged me. It's gone now."

"You killed everyone on it?" the younger one said, looking over at the woman who shared her name. She certainly didn't look like the type who had killed anyone. Arya also knew how to spot lies and tell a man's disposition. Ironically, it was far easier for her to tell the disposition of other women. Maybe it was because she was a woman as well.

"No," she shook her head, "I forgave them. Not to their face, but I realized that nothing I did would change the past."

"Why?" the young Arya threw up her hands in the air, "Why would you forgive them?"

"Valar Morghulis," she said, running a hand through her raven black hair. "I came to realize that I didn't need to kill everyone. Death comes for us all."

Young Arya jumped to her feet and paced away to the window, resting her hand on the sill. Looking out, she saw the division of light and shadow as the mountain cut the light from the sun in half. She looked out, shaking her head.

"You would have me abandon my quest for vengeance?" she asked, not turning back to them. "You would have me leave my family's killers roam free. I cannot…. _will not_. I promised myself, by the bones of my father, mother and brother that my family would be avenged. I cannot break that promise now."

There was silence as the weight of her words hung in the air. Arya heard after a few long seconds one of the chairs creak as the one who had been sitting rose to their feet. She identified it was probably Eragon, as the feet of men were generally those of a heavier weight than women. She felt his presence stop behind her, seeming to hover.

"We tell you to do nothing, good or bad," he corrected. "Yet, we give you our advice. The reason you came here, had nothing to do with a quest for vengeance. It was about reconnecting to your past."

She scrunched up her face, the very idea preposterous. This had nothing to do with that. She had known of a man who had accomplished his revenge upon all those who had dared wrong him. It was that reason she had come.

"Would you have our counsel?" the Hedge Knight asked.

She grunted, shrugging her shoulder. Advice had never hurt anyone. It was using that advice that was good or ill. It did nothing just to listen.

"Time in this life is too short to be always pursuing vengeance against every fucker whose ever wronged us," he told her. "Me and my brother spent years in Essos, hunting down a single man. Did we savor the moment of the kill? Absolutely. Yet we realized at the end, that when we came home, instead of being hailed as heroes, no one seemed to recognize us. We were strangers to our own kind. Do not become a stranger to your family, Arya. Life is too precious for that."

Arya curled her hand into a fist. Everything he said was doing something funny to her. He must have been using sorcery or something, because she was starting to feel as if she were missing something in her life.

"Do you remember the name of a man named Brom?" Eragon asked.

"Yes," she nodded her head. "He was the storyteller that taught you magic."

"Do you remember how I said he died?"

Arya shook her head. "I assume it was protecting you," she guessed. She still did not look away from the window, instead focusing on the side of the mountains that rose not far from where they stood.

Eragon snorted, "No, the damned fool literally exploded himself with his own spell."

Arya turned to him, her eyes wide. "What?" she asked surprised. "It wasn't something noble? Not a death by a thousand strokes? It was an….accident?"

"Yes," he shook his head. "He tried showing me a simple spell. I think he might have mispronounced something. Either way, it took me three days to completely wash my body of him. I never learned magic. Oh, he tried teaching me, but teaching magic and learning magic are completely different things. His own gifts destroyed him."

Arya leaned back against the window, feeling the cold glass on the back of her head. Eragon looked down on her, and she could feel both understanding and pity from him. She didn't technically want either. She wanted the strength to carry out her mission.

Yet, for all his claims of not knowing magic, she was finding her resolve to continue south suddenly beginning to come under scrutiny. May the God of Death curse him for this!"

"If you were indeed trained by the Faceless Men than you have a mighty gift," Eragon said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It is a gift meant to help your family and you, this is true. Don't let it be the death of you, Arya Stark."

* * *

Old Barney the Lizard stepped out of the gatehouse as Arya approached the open gate. Now that she could get a good look at him, she could see the man was grey and with most of his hair gone. He had a kindly face, with extra skin hanging from his face.

"Well lass," he said, "How did you enjoy it?"

"Enjoy what?" she asked.

" _The Plump Duck_ of course!" Barney exclaimed. "Did Bradley give you a hard time? He's one that likes them young, begging your pardon of course. His wife is barely half his age, a scandal if there ever was one here in Palisade Village."

"A little," she admitted, "But it was all in good sport."

Barney bobbed his head up and down. "Aye, that it is," he said. "Don't be too much of a stranger now. Anyone is welcome and you are still young enough that you would make someone a very nice wife."

Arya gave an amused smile. "I'm not sure anyone would like what I could give them," she said, being absolutely truthful.

"Got teeth in your clam do you?" he jested, slapping his calves at his own joke. "Nay, but seriously, if you ever come back, we will be more than welcoming, especially if you decide to stay."

Arya nodded, feeling strangely a sense of gratitude for this ornery, crude man. "I will keep it in mind," and she found that she actually meant it. With a cluck to her horse, they started off down the path, leaving Palisade Village behind.

The two days that it took to reach the King's Road left her much time to think and ponder on the words of Eragon, Murtagh and their wives. The dark-skinned woman had said much over the supper-table, but she was very busy with the village and had stayed little when it wasn't dark outside. They had…..well….given her much to think about.

She wanted nothing more than to claim the vengeance that was rightfully that of the Wolf. With the amount of faces she had so far collected, she could have gutted all of King's Landing in a fortnight. Her arms might have been extremely tired at the end, yet it could be done. It would have served all of them right.

Arya had never really thought about home, not too much in the past year. There had been times when she had yearned to return to Westeros. Yet her she was now. Doing only what needed to be done.

She had finally learned what Jaqen H'ghar had meant that she was "No One". She was not so firmly established in one identity that she couldn't kill anyone or be anyone. She was No One, because there was no limits of what she could do or be. She could be anyone, Hells, she could not even be here. She was not attached to any single thing, more so than the rest and could easily get rid of anything that proved to be more burden than gift.

Yet…

The King Road appeared before her nearing the end of the second day. A light snowfall had blanketed the earth with a soft cover of snow. She was nearing the continuation of her journey. Reaching the Road with her horse, she came to a stop. Suddenly, she felt extremely torn.

In one direction lay King's Landing. The Queen and her brother. They were high on her list. The Mountain might be there as well. She could cross off three of the big names of her list. After that, there was the Brotherhood without Banners and the Red Witch, but with the Queen's face, she could rule over the Seven Kingdoms and no one would notice the difference.

Yet in the other direction lay Winterfell. Family that she had not seen in years. Jon, who ruled as King of the North. Little Rickon, she wanted to see her little brother so badly and see how he had grown. Bran, hopefully he wasn't doing poorly. She knew a thing about being crippled, and she wanted to see how her feelings of being blind went with his own experiences.

Her gloves gripped the reins and she closed her eyes, indecision tearing into her. What was more important to her? What did Arya Stark truly desire?

What did No One want?


	38. Epi 6, Ch 4: Jaime

***Jaime***

Today was the day. Jaime stood next to his horse, stroking his white mane. It had taken some time, but he had finally found a replacement for Joanna. She had been such a good horse, although he doubted there was anything left to her but bones that had been discarded.

So now he had his new horse. It was an odd fellow, to be sure. The main of his body was chestnut, but his mane was of a golden hue and a strip ran down between his eyes that were grey. He was a sure-footed beast, to be certain and had a keen intellect. The horse seemed to instinctively know his new master's handicapped state, so he would position him just so mounting him would be easy.

"A fine beast, Ser Jaime," Randyll Tarly said to him, stepping up close, his own horse with white coat with many of her spots of fur being a light grey.

"I think so," Jaime agreed. "His name is Tommen."

Randyll said nothing, but his harsh eyes and features seemed to soften a bit. The Lord nodded to him, and looked down to the Pass down beneath them. High rocks stuck out at various angles rising up the slopes that formed the sides of the Prince's Pass. These rock outcroppings hide a mighty host of a thousand Lannister Knights of their side of the pass. On the other was the Knights of the Reach, about nine-hundred souls.

At the end of the pass, in a tent city was the armies of the Reach. Unbeknownst to the Dornish forces approaching, the tents were filled with Lannister archers armed with cross-bows and swordsmen with sharp cold steel. The soldiers of the Reach could be seen milling about cook-fires for all to see. The Dorne would see the soldiers of the Reach and with no expectations of trouble, the lead elements would enter the camp, only to be ambushed.

Once the ambush had commenced, the Knights of the Reach and Casterly Rock would sweep down into the sides of the enemy host. All the while, archers on either side would be pouring arrows and bolts into the foe while further down the pass, footmen would rush the further part of the army. If all went according to plan, within the space of three hours, the Dornish horde would be broken, never to return to fight the rightful ruler of the Iron Throne.

"After this," Bronn said, patting down the muzzle of his own black beauty. "We need to have a serious discussion about my castle and wife."

"Don't you ever tire of whinging about that?" Jaime asked, shaking his head in annoyance.

"Don't you ever tire of not giving me my fucking due?" Bronn shot back.

"There will be time enough for all of that," Ser Preston Greenfield replied, calling from where he stood off to the right of the group. "Our first and only duty now will be to kill as many of these fuckers as we can before we get killed in turn."

"I only want to fight to get Aranne," Ser Arys called from next to his old compatriot.

The old members of the Kingsguard who had agreed to help Ser Jaime stood in close proximity to him, ready to mount their steeds at a moment's notice. Their white cloaks were gone, replaced with a silver cloak that would reflect the sunlight if caught just right.

Ser Osmund Kettleblack was sitting on his own horse, a leather-bound book in his hands. Jaime couldn't tell what the title was, but there was pictures in it of naked women. What more did a book need?

They had taken new names upon themselves. _The Kingslayer Guards._ As touched as Jaime was at their vote of confidence in him, he wasn't sure why they felt they needed to call themselves his guards. Did they think he was incapable of fighting? He may have lost his sword-hand, but even Bronn had grudgingly admitted that he was now nearly on par with what he felt that Jaime could have done before.

However, Bronn had never seen Jaime fight before, so he'd have to forgive Jaime for not taking a whole lot of comfort in it.

Jaime looked at his horse that carried his son's name. His hand rested on the hilt of the Valyrian Steel sword that hung from his right side. _Widow's Wail_ , the sword given to his son as a wedding gift. It's brother, _Oathkeeper_ had originally been given to Jaime by his father, but he had given it to Brienne when she went to go find Sansa Stark. Lastly, was the cloak that flowed from his back. He had it cleaned of the blood that had been on it, and now, it was as it had once been, a soft salmon pink with embroidered flowers that ran from the front.

Cersei had wanted to burn Myrcella's dress that she had died in, but Jaime's heart couldn't take it. He had been able to save it from the fire by knocking out the servant from behind with his golden hand. He had then given it to a dress maker who had been able to clean the blood. He had been able to have it sewn flat, using the plunging neck-line as the point when the dress could be attacked to his shoulders.

Wielding the sword that has been his eldest, his robe made of the dress that his beloved daughter had worn when she had died, and riding a horse that bore his youngest son's name, he would wreck havoc through the ranks of all the enemies of his House and family.

He grabbed the robe and brought it to his nose, smelling it. If he imagined hard enough, he could almost convince himself that he could smell the scent of his daughter in the cloth. He had been ridiculed by his eldest, had good discussions and moments with his youngest. Yet it was his daughter that he had felt the closest to, especially when he had been able to tell her the truth of their familial status.

"Here they come," Bronn said, inclining his head down to the Pass.

Jaime let the robe drop, as he looked down upon the approaching army. At the head was the Dornish cavalry, about two thousand knights. They wore light armor, preferring heavy robes that were the color of the sands of Dorne. Sunlight glinted off the spearheads.

"Alright," he addressed those gathered. "Pass the word to mount. But be quiet. Even though we have these rocks to hide us, they can still hear us."

"Good luck," Randyll Tarly said, mounting his war horse.

Gripping the saddle-horn, Jaime pulled himself up and settled into the seat, which curved well with the beasts body and fit his crotch nicely. Then, he settled in, watching the procession. They would wait, wait for the moment. The soldiers in the camps had standing orders of what to do and he'd wait for the commotion of the camp before he would charge down. The Knight of the Reach were under strict orders and he would expect them to follow the orders of Dickon Tarly, Randyll's son.

The long lines of marching Dorne approached the camp and he could feel the tension rising in the knights behind them. The time was coming closer that they would punish the Dorne for all the slights they had given the Realm. Jaime's eyes scanned the army, and his eyes rested on a cell-wagon that was in the middle of the vast host.

"Bronn," he called in a low voice. "You see the cage down there?"

"Aye," the sell-sword replied.

"I want you to take a few knights and charge it," Jaime said. "Anything the Dornish feel is important enough to cage and bring along is of importance to us."

"Alright," Bronn shrugged, "But that will cost you extra."

Jaime rolled his eyes. He really didn't feel like getting into it with him at the moment. Instead, he turned to watch the procession. They were entering the camp now, the first riders entering. He held up his hand slowly, his golden hand, and waited. Waited. Waited for the commotion that would give him the signal he needed.

 _Jaime's mind flashed back to a night long ago. He sat at the edge of his cot, his boots kicked off and tossed to the edge of the door. It had been a long campaign against Kingswood Brotherhood. He had performed well, saving his lord Sumner Crakehall and defeating the Smiling Knight in single combat. His tunic was covered in blood and he hadn't yet wiped off his blade._

 _No, now he just wanted to rest and revel in the moment. Just wait until he told Cersei! She would definitely take him in her mouth after such valiant tales! Oh, and just wait until he talked to Father! Tywin Lannister was a hard man to please, but how he would crow about his son's success! And there was Tyrion, his little brother would enjoy hearing about the valor of the battlefield!_

 _He, a lowly squire! He had done all that. Now hopefully Ser Sumner wouldn't need him the rest of the night. He leaned back on his cot and closed his eyes, dreaming of his sister's young flower body. He had barely laid down his head though when there was a knock on his tent pole at the tent's entrance._

 _Jaime sighed. "Alright, I am coming, my lord," he said, sitting up. "What can I fetch for you….."_

 _"Nothing for me," a man, tall with keen eyes and a close-trimmed beard said. He wore a white cloak and a three-headed dragon adorned his breastplate. "You, Jaime Lannister. You are a different story all together. Do you know who I am?"_

 _"You are Ser Arthur Dayne!" Jaime's eyes went wide. "The Sword of the Morning!"_

 _"Aye," the Dornishman said, standing before him. "I saw you perform well today, young Lannister. Yes, very well indeed."_

 _"Thank you," Jaime said. Wow, this was really Ser Arthur Dayne! In his tent! His young heart could barely contain his excitement._

 _"Not as much as your master was thankful for what you did for him," Arthur Dayne smiled amused. "How would you like to be known as Ser Jaime?"_

 _"Yes!" Jaime said excitedly, but curbed his enthusiasm. "Yet I still am to squire for two more years."_

 _"Not anymore," Arthur Dayne said, "With the permission of your master, you will be knighted. On your knee, Jaime Lannister, so you can be knighted."_

 _Jaime was so grateful he nearly fell over himself to…_

The commotion had started in the camp. Jaime snapped back to the present and brought his golden hand down, and pointed straight ahead. With that, he drew his sword, the sun glinting off the Valyrian steel and with a flick of the reins with his golden hand, Tommen began down the slope. They moved around the rocks for a dozen yards, then suddenly the slops cleared off and the knights fanned out behind him.

"Hear me Roar!" Jaime bellowed the Lannister House Words as if they were a battle cry and charged forward at a full gallop. A thousand voices roared the same battle cry while he heard a few other house words being bellowed as well. Such as Randyll Tarly shouting "First in Battle!"

The Dornish were caught off guard and before they knew it, Jaime was in the thick of them. His sword swept down, his blade cutting off the face of a Dornish spearman was looked wide-eyed at the sudden appearance of so many unfriendly horses.

Within a mere minute, he had already cut down three men. A sea of yellow-skinned Dornish were before him, but they were parting before them as water parts for the boulders. Arrows flew past him from archers determined to fight, and he heard a crash. He looked back and saw a knight down. Three Dornish swordsman swarmed the downed knight.

Jaime didn't see the result of the conflict as he turned. A Dornish noble was trying to charge through the confusion as him, but the mass of bodies were holding him in check. Jaime felt something hit his horse, and he turned to see a new Dornish spearman who had been kicked against him by Ser Preston as he stabbed downwards against a man on the other-side.

Jaime twisted his sword and clenched it against his side. He reached over the side and smashed down on the other man's head with his golden hand. As the man dropped, Jaime slipped his hand around the spear shaft and jerked upwards. The spear dislodged from the unconscious man, and passing weapon between golden hand and regular hand, he freed his arm so he could twirl the spear and throw it at the Dornish noble. His aim was true and the spear imbedded in the man's gut. Jaime didn't wait to see the man die as he switched _Widow's Wail_ from his golden hand to his flesh hand.

Before him the Dornish were rallying. Even as arrows began to fall among their ranks, dropping many of them, Jaime raised his sword and twirled it in the air. "Fall back and regroup!' he bellowed over the din of battle.

With that, he turned his horse and pressed into Tommen's flanks. He galloped out of the melee and most of the knights followed his example. Jaime didn't know where Bronn was, but he led his men from the melee, Randyll Tarly close behind him. The _Kingslayer Guard_ were close behind him. He galloped past the bodies of many dead Dornishmen. Here and there a Lannister knight was down, either dead or fighting on foot. They did not slow to collect their brethren, as these men were too surrounded to save.

Up the slope they galloped up and raising _Widow's Wail_ , he circled the blade in the air. The host checked their horses and turned to face down the slope. The jutting rocks to their backs, they prepared to attack. But, that was when another roar rose, but this time from the other side of the Pass. Many of the Dornishmen turned to see what was behind them, but it was only now that the Knights of the Reach thundered down, plowing into the exposed backs of the Dornish.

At the same time, more roars rose in the air and both sides of the Pass were suddenly filled with screaming foot soldiers. Jaime waited for the foot soldiers to hit. They soon did, and the entire pass was filled with the sounds of sword against sword, steel on wood and the tearing sound of flesh being torn apart.

Jaime watched the front line of the soldiers advancing towards them waver as they were unsure where to go. Just then several officers rode up to them. At first he couldn't tell the gender, but then their shrill voices pierced the din of battle screaming as only women could. Valiantly, the front rank began to advance forward, shields held together, locked and spears and swords pointed forward.

"Now would be a good time to give the fuckers a lesson," Osmund Kettleblack said, sweat already pouring down his face. Jaime glanced across the Pass and saw the Reach's knights begin to wheel and retreat up the slope. Once they reached the outcroppings, they would turn and wait their turn to charge again.

"I agree," Jaime shouted, pointing his sword forward. "Charge!"

"Finally!" Randyll Tarly roared in approval and the knights thundered back down the valley.

Downwards they charged, heavy in armor and the sun catching off hundreds of sword blades and the silver cloaks of the _Kingslayers Guard_. His focus zeroed in on one warrior, a woman without helmet and hair done up in a bun. She had a spear aimed right for him. Soon he was so close that Tommen screamed in horse fury as he smashed into the woman. She staggered from the impact, only to have Randyll Tarly slam into her, and she disappeared under a thousand hooves.

The front line broke apart and routed. One of the officers charged him, screaming as sword was raised in the air. He smiled, and leaning forward, he charged towards her. She swung for him but he deftly dodged it, checking his steed and pulling up behind her. She tried to turn, but she wasn't nearly as fast as Jaime was. He was on her in an instant and he swung his blade.

She caught his blade awkwardly, parrying three strikes. She turned and fury in her eyes, she swung her arm up and back, ready to slice down. However, she had opened herself to Jaime. With a quick thrust, he sliced her through the right breast and with a slashing jerk, yanked the blade out and sideways. The woman grabbed her bleeding breast as she toppled off her horse, the blood pouring far faster then she could stop.

An axe slammed down onto his golden hand, getting caught. Jaime looked at the soldier, a spry little fellow with no meant on his bones. Desperately, the man tried to yank his axe out of the hand that refused to yield it. Jaime tutted twice before he swung his blade down and forwards, the cutting motion removing both man's hands. Blood geysered onto Jaime's leg and Myrcella's dress as the man screamed.

"Don't worry," Jaime assured him, "You'll get used to it."

Jaime turned, looking for new enemies in the maelstrom of combat, and spotted her. The oval face, the short hair of brown that was curled. His hand gripped his sword tightly, anger and hatred pouring into him. Pure rage turned his entire vision red.

 _"There is something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you long ago. Now that you have seen more of the world….."_ Jaime spurred Tommen forward and he pounded forward, his sword slashing from here to there, cutting down all in his way. _"You have learned how complicated things can be, how people can be."_

A Dornishman's head went flying off, but he had only one true target. _"We don't choose who we love."_ She was trying to rally her troops, spouting of vengeance and hate. _"We just…it is just something beyond our control. I sound like an idiot."_ His sword cleaved the arm off the last man between him and her.

 _"No, you don't."_ She turned to him, and her eyes widened as she suddenly realized her danger. _"What I am trying to say, what…what I am failing to say…"_ One of the Sand Snakes, those bitches came charging him, swinging a whip as if he were a misbehaving horse. " _I know what you are trying to say."_ He caught the whip in his sword and punched her hard across the face with his metallic hand. _"No, I'm afraid you don't."_

The whip was pulled from her hand and with a slash, he cut through her cheeks, tearing out teeth with the blow. _"Yes, I do." She grabs his hand. "I know."_ Jaime rushes past her, Ellaria turning to flee. _"About you and mother. I think a part of me always knew."_ Her horse was too slow and the other Sand Snake, the one with the spear, fell after a few quick strikes. His sword cut downwards and the horse tumbled to the ground. Ellaria was thrown to the ground, pinned by the horse.

Jaime dropped off the horse. The battle raged all around him, but the knights of the Reach had rejoined the fray and the Dornish army was dissolving into a mass without order. No one cared for the bastard bitch that had dragged them into war. They now only cared for their own survival.

"Do you know what she said to me, at the end?" he asked, stalking up to her, _Widow's Wail_ seeming to burn with a hunger in his hands. Ellaira looked up at him, fear filling her eyes. " _'I'm glad. I'm glad you are my father.'"_

"Please….." Ellaria begged but with a fierce kick of the heel of his boot, he smashed into the side of her face. He could feel the teeth cracking at the contact of leather soles against flesh and bone.

"You stole her from me," Jaime growled, pacing around Ellaria. She spat blood from her mouth. His voice cracked as he spoke. "You stole her from me right as I finally for the first time in my life was able to embrace her as my daughter. Do you know how vile that was? How it's haunted me every day? It breaks my heart on a nightly basis to know that the one child that knew I was her father, died the same moment we acknowledged that fact to each other. Do you know she was whispering my name in the end? ' _Pape, papa, papa_ ' begging me to save her, even though I couldn't."

He set the tip of _Widow's Wail_ on Ellaria's throat. Her eyes grew wide as she realized he wasn't going to take her alive.

"Well guess what, you vile bitch?" he spat in her face, "I take your life from you. And guess what?" he grabbed his robe and pulled it around, so she could see the embroidered flowers and pink silk. "Myrcella is here as well."

And with that, he let go of the robe. Taking his golden hand up, he pounded it down on the pommel like a hammer and the blade drove down.

 _To be continued with_ _**Episode 7: Dragonglass**..._

* * *

 _ **Episode Notes:**_

 _ **-I originally planned to have a chapter from Meera's POV in the last episode but I abandoned it for the Bran chapter. I was going to do it in this episode, but I wanted to focus on the main characters we focused on.**_

 _ **-The Sons of Morzan storyline has ended in this chapter.**_

 _ **-I actually was going to finish the Arya chapter with her picking a direction, but not revealing which direction she had chosen. But I felt that less was more with that scene.**_

 _ **-The end-game for this fan season was actually established this episode, and if you are really keen-minded, you may have spotted it!**_

 _ **-I originally had it planned where the Battle of the Prince's Pass was going to be seen from several POVs. It was going to go from Ellaria/Jaime/Ser Arys/Bronn. I also was going to have the flashback be about the moment when Cersei convinced Jaime to become a Kingsguard by giving up the goods to him, as it were.**_

 _ **-The battle-cry of "First In Battle" as the motto of House Tarly is not canonical, but is semi-canonical, as in it's been adopted at their motto without official confirmation from any source.**_

 _ **-I really liked the idea that Jaime would have made Myrcella's dress from when she was murdered into a robe, and that he would ride into battle carrying and riding reminds of his children. Such as Jon who has Ned's values, Jeor Mormont's sword and Mance Rayder's dislike for bending the knee, taking the values of his father-figures. Also, who can't love the image of Myrcella being there at the end in a way to see her murderer's death!**_

 _ **-The theme was gifts for this episode. Bran's gift was his crutches and leg braces. Arya's was advice from a hero of hers. Cersei's was getting the Realm out of debt. And Jaime's was revenge against Ellaria Sand.**_

 _ **-Bran's crutches and leg braces were partially inspired by one episode of Vikings where Ivar the Boneless was given crutches which were part crutch, part spear.**_

 _ **-We are officially a fourth of the way through the season!**_


	39. Epi 7: Dragonglass, Ch 1: Tyrion

**Episode 7: Dragonglass**

 ***Tyrion***

Tyrion heard the news with shock and alarm. The Dornish Army routed in the field? Ellaria Sand killed in the battle? Three of the four Sand Snakes butchered while one was in chains heading back to King's Landing? Varys stood at the midpoint of the throne room, his face a mask that showed nothing of his own feelings on the subject.

"How?" Daenerys asked, her voice cold. "How was an army of nearly fifty-thousand Dorne defeated? I was under the impression that they were among the best fighters of the Realm."

Varys shifted his weight from one foot to another and Tyrion wondered this himself. Oberyn Martell had won his fight against the Mountain, the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms. He would have made the killing blow, had he not been so damned cocky and arrogant. Had he just finished him off instead of being so obsessed with a confession for something he already knew, Oberyn would still be alive.

"It would appear, Your Grace," Varys said slowly, as if this were news of the utmost serious import. That if he didn't say it slowly enough, the point would be missed. "The Armies of the Reach joined the Lannister forces and ambushed the Dornish at the head of the Prince's Pass."

A deadly silence filled the room and Tyrion glanced sideways at Missandei. Her eyes grew wide in shock and the interpreter glanced at Daenerys. Tyrion did so as well. Daenerys was sitting straight like a marble statue. Her hands slowly curled in and out of a fist. Her fingers were like claws whenever she would uncurl her hands.

"Why would they betray me?" she asked, her words hurled as accusations. "I was under the impression that Lady Olena had the Reach firmly in her grasp. Did she turn on me?"

"It would appear that word of the burning of the prisoners reached the Reach and the nobles took umbrage to how you treated them," Varys explained. "They decided to…."

"Kings have been burning people all over Westeros!" Daenerys snapped, slapping the armrests of the throne made of dragonglass. "Yet if I do it, then the lords and ladies of Westeros have a problem with it? Why? Is it because I am a woman? And who is it that have been telling what goes on to our enemies?"

"I have no clue as to the identity of the traitor," Varys assured her, "Yet there are many people here on Dragonstone, and not all of them agree to the change in regime."

Daenerys leapt to her feet. Her face was a visage of pure rage. "Then I shall destroy them myself!" she declared. "I will go with all of my dragons and burn every single one of these traitors to the ground. There will be nothing left but ash of them all. The Reach dares think to betray me? I shall destroy them all with fire and blood!"

Daenerys was now pacing like a cat…..no, Tyrion correct himself. Like a dragon. And he did not like the words that she was saying. She was spouting venom and decrees of the worst type of conflagration that would sweep the Seven Kingdoms.

"Your Grace," he said, not sure how she would react, but hoping he could make her see reason. "You need to think clearly about this. You can't just run off into battle."

"I don't need to do anything, Hand," she snapped, turning her piercing gaze at him. She was beautiful, but that beauty was swept away by the fire that was raging behind her eyes. "What I need to do is teach the Reach a lesson about the price of betrayal."

"You can't mean the mass slaughter of people who won't have a chance to surrender," Tyrion shook his head. "Even the Dothraki have more mercy than dragons do, and can tell the difference far more swiftly than dragons can. If you wish, unleash the horde of our enemies. But not dragonfire. It was your use of dragonfire that turned them against us."

"And if I hadn't listened to your plan King's Landing would already be burned!" Daenerys snapped, "And my fleet would still stand. But _nooooo_. I had to listen to your plan, and look what it has gotten us. Nothing but failure and defeat. No more, I will do it my own way."

"Your Grace," Tyrion held up his hands, patting them in the air in a calming motion. "Three dragons cannot take on two entire armies. They are vulnerable….."

" _Vulnerable?_ " Daenerys balked as if the Half-Man were insane. "Everyone out except for Tyrion!" She repeated the command, only in Valyrian.

Tyrion folded his arms, holding the steely gaze of the Queen as everyone left the room. He could feel the weight of the gazes on those whom departed, and couldn't help but feel like these witnesses were the only thing keeping him safe. He mentally shook himself. Daenerys did not attack people herself. No, she left that to her dragons, which thankfully couldn't fit in either the windows or the doors.

Daenerys towered over him, stalking up to him as the rest left. She stopped just a mere two feet from him. Had it been any other time, he would have admired the fact that he eye-level was such that he could look directly at her tits without having to move his eyes at all. Yet now, he couldn't have conjured up that comforting though. No, this was going to get ugly, and he knew it.

The doors closed with a boom that felt like the hammering of a nail on a coffin. Her eyes narrowed until they were mere slits in her face. Honestly, Tyrion had always felt that Daenerys Targaryen's face had a rather weird look to it. This only added to the absurdity of it now. He had never thought of it as a bad thing though. No, it was good for rulers to not be perfect in all things. It helped give them that quality that allowed people to relate to them.

"You clearly have not been paying attention, Tyrion," she said.

"How so?" he asked.

"If you had been paying attention," she continued, "You would have noticed that my dragons can't be killed. They are invulnerable."

"I was in the fighting pits of Mereen," he reminded her. "I saw Drogon take several spears through the wings…."

"Wings!" she nearly screamed the word at him. Her nostrils flared, "Not heart, not brain, not his eye not even in his tail!" With every single word she pointed her finger to each thing on her own body, minus the tail, but even than she pointed at her butt. "Yet since then, Drogon and the rest of my children have grown larger. You can't tell me that they still can be wounded in the same fashion."

Tyrion shook his head. "Your dragons are not invincible," he argued the point, "During the Conquest of Aegon the Conqueror, his sister-wife Rhaenys and her dragon Meraxes were killed by the Dorne."

"That is a fabrication," Daenerys retorted. "It was created by the Dorne to claim they were surprior to everything else. My brother told me all about that lie."

"It is not a lie," Tyrion said, "I have seen the skull of Meraxes. Near the eye socket you see a jagged piece where the bolt hit it."

"Time does strange things to all things," she dismissed his claim and turning stalked over to her throne and threw herself onto it.

Tyrion approached her cautiously, as if she were a wild animal that could attack at any moment. Which, technically, she could. They did not call her 'The Dragons Daughter' for nothing. Yet he wouldn't be apprehended. He would tell her the truth, no matter how hard she found it to be.

"Putting aside the issue of the dragons mortality," he said, "There is also you."

"What about me?" she growled, not looking at him as she stared at the floor.

"You are mere flesh and blood and don't have dragonscales to save you," Tyrion pointed out to her. "Your Grace, a stray bolt could hit you and you'd be killed. If you were to die, who would lead us? Who would keep the Dothraki in check? You have never once made it clear what was to happen after you are dead, and I don't want to find out any time soon."

"Do you really think that any archer could shoot high enough to get me on the back of a dragon?" she laughed humorlessly. "Oh, my dear Tyrion, how little you understand me. I walked through fire without harm. A fire almost as hot as dragonfire roared around me to little effect. What makes you think that if the hottest fire couldn't harm me, that something as mundane as a sword, spear or arrow would dare harm me?"

"Because," Tyrion said, refusing to let the desperation enter his voice. He was login the argument, the logic wasn't holding with her. She had become convinced of her own invincibility and all those she touched. "You are a breathing, living human being. Perhaps you have some invulnerability to fire. But that is merely one of a thousand things that could potentially harm you. You aren't impervious to all of them. Your Grace, you cannot go out half-cocked to rain true fire without thinking of how vulnerable you are."

"You keep saying that I shouldn't burn the traitors," Daenerys said, turning an accusing look at him. "Why is that? Lord Varys said that word of the burning of the prisoners reached the Reach. However, there wasn't too many people who saw it. Tell me, Tyrion _Lannister_ , where did I catch you coming from the day you took me to see that saddle you had made? You weren't in the castle, so what were you doing?"

Tyrion's eyes widened in alarm and then narrowed in disbelief. He held her gaze in his own, and didn't turn away. How dare she question his loyalty? She knew very well the history he had with his family, why would he help them? Dammit, he knew enough about loyalty to not go telling her secrets to the enemy.

"You are not thinking clearly, Your Grace," Tyrion said, "I have been nothing but loyal to you. I never would give our enemies an advantage over you. I want you to succeed, and while I do continue to advice restraint, I also will not have you harmed."

"There's only one reason I can think that you would betray my confidence," Daenerys continued, as if she had not heard him. "Yes, it would make perfect sense if that was the reason you'd tell my enemies about this act, knowing it would enflame them. You told me continually not to, but I did it anyways. So, like a child, you throw a tantrum and send word of my activities to my enemies.

Shaking his head, Tyrion turned and began to walk away. He wasn't going to stand there and continue to be insulted. He had taken that his entire life. "Don't you walk away from me!" Daenerys uncharacteristically bellowed.

"I will not stand there and be accused of treason, Your Grace!" he shot back, continuing hiss retreat to the door. "I have already gone through that once. When you wish to be more rational, I will be more than willing to talk with you, Your Grace. But until then, I go visit the whore house, which, by the way, was where I was when you ran into me and I took you to your saddle."

"Did Varys tell you?" she hurled after him. "That eunuch I told him not to! But he is always doing what he will, plotting behind the backs of the Kings of Westeros."

Tyrion did not pay attention, tuning her out. Let her continue hurling insults at him. He didn't care. His armor was as thick as dragonscale. There was nothing she could say that would harm him. He reached for the door to push it open.

"When did he tell you Ellaria Sand killed Princess Myrcella?" she demanded. "Was this vengeance against Ellaria Sand? Did you sabotage my entire war effort to get back at her?"

He stopped, his entire world seeming to come to a stop. Myrcella…..she was dead? How long had she known about it and withheld it from him? Varys had known but hadn't told him? No, no, it wasn't true. He turned back to Daenerys, and she was standing on her feet, her fists balled and the truth….it was etched on her face.

"No, Your Grace," Tyrion said, anger filling his own voice. "I did not know about Myrcella's death. Until this moment. You knew about her being dead, but didn't tell me? Why? Why would you hide this from me?"

Something seemed to finally break through the barrier of anger in Daenerys and she looked stunned and horrified. She blinked a couple of times as if all her wits had left her.

Tyrion asked a more serious question, "Were you ever _going_ to tell me?" he asked. When she didn't reply, he realized that she may never have told him. How could he serve her if she didn't trust him? He reached up, grabbed his Hand of the Queen broach, ripped it off and threw it to the ground. "I see that you don't trust me, Your Grace. As such, I resign my position as Hand of the Queen."

With that, he pushed open the door and stormed into the hallway, tears beginning to well up in his eyes at the news of his innocent niece's brutal and senseless murder.


	40. Epi 7, Ch 2: Jaime

***Jaime***

Night had fallen over the camp when he finally decided to take a seat around the fire. He grunted as he sat around the fire, the men sitting around it, muttering his name and nodding to him. The sounds of celebrations could be heard in other parts of the camp. Out of the hundred thousand men that had started out in this war, most still stood.

Yesterday they had fought a massive battle and had won a resounding victory. Ten thousand Dorne had been taken captive, and Jaime had divided up the army into several sections. A thousand men would bury the dead of the Lannister-Reach allied forces. Six thousand men would march the captives to Ashford on the banks of the Cockleswent, where they would then decide how best to use them. Ten thousand men had been dispatched at the beginning of the campaign to bottle-up the Dothraki in Massey's Hook. The narrow peninsula of land could easily be cut off and the hundred thousand Screamers being unable to force their way through.

The plan was simple. They'd take the seventy-five thousand men who weren't assigned to guarding prisoners and burial detail up north. The Reach forces would march to Highgarden then take the Roseroad to the Kingswood, where they would then march along the roads to the crossroads. They would then march south, cross the Wendwater and upon reaching Bronzegate, would turn north to reinforce the Massey Hook forces.

Jaime with his smaller twenty-thousand man army would cross the Cocklesweet at Ashford just ahead of the prisoners. Then, they would march north to Grassy Vale and cross the Blueburn at that point. Then up to the Roseroad and would follow a similar path to Randyll Tarly. If all went according to plan, in two weeks time they'd be in position. Tarly would arrive about two weeks after that, but with thirty thousand men firmly entrenched, Jaime was confident they could hold off the Dothraki hordes should they decide to come forth.

Also, should the dragons show up, he would have very nasty surprises for them indeed.

With all that thought and planning done, he could lean against the log they were using for a bench around the fire. He grunted as aa dull-ache ran up from his stump. With a quick motion, he unstrapped the golden hand and removed it. Even in the firelight, the heavy bruises that discolored his stump was plain to see.

"How did you get that?" Ser Osmund asked, poking the fire with a long stick.

"That's what I get for using my golden hand like a club during the entire battle," Jaime grunted. He slid the hand into a pouch he had at his side and with his fingers tied it inside.

"How many did you kill, Ser Jaime?" Preston Greenfield asked, dibbling on a loaf of bread. "Me and the rest of the boys were chatting up how many kills we got. I got two-dozen. Osmund got exactly fourteen. Arys says nine and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater claims twenty."

"I don't know," he shrugged his shoulders.

"He doesn't know because he didn't kill any," Bronn said, his arms crossed in-front of his chest. He is just as successful at killing people as he is paying off debts."

"I did!" Jaime argued defensively. "I took off the face of one man…."

"I was behind you," Arys said, "During the entire battle. You took his nose off, not his entire face."

Jaime raised an eyebrow to him. "I ran down a female warrior…."

"Actually, your horse clipped her from the side and it was Randyll that rode her down."

"I took both hands off a man who stuck his axe in my hand!"

"Doesn't qualify as a kill."

"I bashed in the head of a damned spearman," Jaime said, heat rising as his temper did. "I ripped his spear out of his hands and threw the fucking spear into the stomach of a nobleman trying to charge me!"

"That spear was actually an arrow," Osmund replied, "I saw you throw that spear, and trust me, the noble couldn't have been closer than thirty feet. Even in your best days when you had both hands, I only ever saw you throw twenty feet."

"I killed both Sand Snakes and that bitch Ellaria," Jaime proclaimed, knowing they couldn't argue that. "Try to claim I speak falsely now!"

"The one with the whip was still alive after you slashed her face," Arys replied, "I finished her with a decapitation."

"And the spear one was still standing," Osmund commented. "She tried staggering away, but I was there to gut her."

"You did get Ellaria Sand though."

"Well fuck me raw and bloody!" Jaime snapped, shame rising in his face. "At least I got that one bitch through the breast."

"That was a good kill," Ser Preston nodded.

"Aye," the others agreed.

"Most of the people you killed, which wasn't that many," Bronn said stroking his beard. "Was either cunts who weren't facing you, or fuckers who were women. You aren't up to beating anyone in a fair fight."

Jaime rounded on his, his eyes narrowing in anger. "You told me I was doing good!" he shot at him.

"I'm a sell-sword," Bronn shrugged nonchalantly, "And I'm supposed to boost your spirits every now and then."

Jaime crossed his arms and glared moodily into the fire. Fuck them all! He had killed them all, dammit! This was all jest at his expense. How low he had fallen for that to be the case.

There was silence around the campfire, and Jaime was reluctant to break it. He didn't want to talk to these fuckers after that! So, he appreciated they didn't talk to him. Yet the longer he sat, looking into the fire, the more he couldn't help but feel that this was not for his benefit.

"What?" he finally asked, breaking the silence.

Ser Arys took a deep breath, bracing himself for whatever he was going to say. "I'm leaving at first light," Ser Arys said.

Jaime blinked at him, astonished. What was this talk? Why would he leave? He had given his word that he would stay and fight the war that was happening! Now he was deserting his oaths given to him? Yet the more he looked at the other man's face, he could see the sincerity and determination on his face.

"There is still a war to fight!" Jaime exclaimed in astonishment. "You gave me your word you would fight…."

"Only as long as it would take to get Arianne," Arys interrupted her. "Which I have now, thanks to Ser Bronn…."

"Don't everyone thank me at once," Bronn interrupted with a wave of his hands. The fire popped and sparked as a twig Bronn had actually had in his hands landed on the fire.

"And that is as far as I will fight this war," Arys continued as if Bronn hadn't spoken. "We are going back to Old Oak. We will have a family there and she will be able to recover from the nightmare that her uncle's paramour put her through."

"Do you really think she will be safe, that either of you will be safe?" demanded Jaime. "If Daenerys Targaryen should win, what do you think will be the first order of business? She will want to bring vengeance on every unfortunate person who dared was Kingsguard to the man who usurped the throne from her father."

A silence again grew around the campfire. This one a tense one, as both Arys and Jaime locked eyes with each other. Jaime's was like swords trying to drive into Ser Arys soul and kill this seed of rebellion on his part. Yet the other man's was like an oaken shield, and battered away every attempt to drive Jaim'es sword into his soul.

"Actually," Ser Preston said, breaking their silence. "We would actually all be better served by getting as far as possible from _you_ , Ser Jaime."

"What?" Jaime asked, swinging his head towards the younger man.

"You killed King Aerys the Second of His Name," Preston said, and the others nodded. "None of us were vowed to protect him. No, except for you. You broke your oath, Ser Jaime. If anyone is destined to die if she wins, it's going to be you, and all who stand by your side."

"So what?" Jaime snapped, "You will abandon your word given to me? You will run and hide?"

"That's what I'd do," Bronn said, "But I'm still waiting on my fucking castle."

"Fuck you and your castle," Osmund Kettleblack, who had so far remained silent so far said. "Look, Ser Jaime. I'm not abandoning you. Neither is Ser Preston." He turned a hard glare at the other knight. "Yet, you overestimate our importance when it comes to her wrecking vengeance. Besides, no man here has given his word to you that we would fight to the end of the war. Ser Balon Swann sure didn't, neither did Ser Boros. Boros is at home now, drinking from the most expensive wine he can find, and as for Balon Swann, who know where he is. And you know what, that's okay. Because trust me, Cersei is no better than Daenerys Targaryen. I heard talk among the Reach soldiers, and as soon as the war is over, they are going to be prepared for when Cersei comes for them."

Jaime couldn't believe what he was hearing. The Reach wanted to actually try declaring war on Cersei, after abandoning Lady Olenna and murdering her and her grandchildren. Would they really be so petty as to keep the Realm plunged in perpetual war?

"Have they not realized that defy Cersei comes with terrible cost?" Jaime asked, shaking his head. "Mad fuckers, all of them."

"Yes, but they don't know how terrible a cost it will be to be friends with your sister either," Osmund said. "Tell me, can you truly give us your word that Cersei will not turn on us at a moment's notice?"

Jaime really wanted to say 'of course not'. Yet, there was no way for him to truly guarantee that. He knew his sister and her moods. She was just as vicious to friends as she was to foes. He was glad, in many ways, that he had finally broken from her. But he knew what the Mad King wanted to do, and surely Cersei was not that terrible.

Or was she? He was still debating that question when Osmund patted him on the shoulder and headed off to his tent. Soon, he was all alone, except for Bronn, who kept his eyes fixed on Jaime Lannister. At long last, Jaime turned to him.

"What?" he finally asked.

"I know I have said over and over again about my castle and I want what I am owed," he said. "Trust me when I say this though. My life is more important than any fucking war. If we encounter a dragon, that's where our partnership will end."

"You'll get paid," Jaime sighed. "As soon as we defeat the Dothraki and head back to King's Landing. There will be dozens of choices for you."

Bronn snorted and spat in the fire a wad of mucus. "Don't fuck a fucker," he warned. "And don't make promises we both know you may never be able to keep."


	41. Epi 7, Ch 3: Bran

***Bran***

Bran swung his crutch forward, set it firm on the ground. He then swung his other crutch forward, setting it firm next to it. He left a wide enough gap and he could swing his whole body forward. Maester Wolkan had assured him that given time, he'd be able to swing both crutches forward at the same time, plant them, then swing forward his legs. He wasn't quite sure about that, yet it wasn't like he was all that accustomed to the crutches period yet.

However these crutches and leg braces gave him a freedom that he had never expected to find again. With Hodor having been killed at the cave, he didn't have anyone large enough that could carry him, and Bran be able to vicariously walk through him. Yet this gave him the allusion of walking, and he was able to move places on his own. That was a greater gift than he could have ever imagined.

The one trouble he had was with stairs. Even now he came to a set of stairs leading up to Sansa's chambers. He really needed to talk to her. There was much she needed to know. He had asked for her and Jon to both meet in her chambers so he could tell them a very important piece of information.

Both Jon and Sansa were waiting up there for him to tell them what he had learned about Jon's true parentage. They did not know this, yet he wondered how Jon would react to not being a sibling, but a cousin through their father's sister. Though bastard he still was, a child of rape.

He tried not to grunt at the thought of so much 'excitement' he was going to have trying to walk himself up twenty steps.

"My Lord Brandon Stark," a voice called from behind him.

Brandon turned his body and glanced back. Lord Petyr Baelish was walking up behind him. A soft-felt black robe was billowing behind him, close fitting dark leather tunic and pants and fine leather boots. As Bran looked at Littlefinger, he could see the reason for the attraction Sansa felt towards him. He knew enough of their history to be able to fill in the blanks.

"Lord Baelish," he said, inclining his head. "If you would forgive me, I am trying to go up these stairs."

"Of course," Littlefinger said with a nod. "Before you head up though, I would speak with you for a moment."

"Can we talk as we go up?" Bran asked, looking with trepidation at the stairs. "I just barely got here and you actually would be a big help in steadying me."

Littlefinger stood there for a second, as if shocked that a Stark would ask for his help. He shrugged and stepped forward. With that, Bran took a deep breath, and tried to remember what he had been told about going up stairs. His leg braces allowed him to stand for a few seconds, so he moved the two crutches forward and put them on the step before him, and gripping the handgrips, pushed himself up. Littlefinger was behind him, hand on Bran's lower back to help steady him.

"So what did you need to speak to me about?" Bran asked.

"I wished to ask you how you were doing," he said. "You were alone in the North for so long, it must be hard back in civilized society."

"I wasn't alone though," Bran corrected. He moved up another step, grunting as he put the effort into it. "I had the two children of Howland Reed with me. There was also Hodor the stable boy and my direwolf Summer. So it wasn't as if I didn't have any company."

"It makes one wonder, why you fled beyond the Wall and didn't go over to the Last Hearth or Karhold."

"I sent Rickon to the Last Hearth," Bran said with a shake of his head. "And look what happened to him. I thought he would be safe…..but the Umbars betrayed him. For what?"

"You mustn't blame yourself for the death of your little brother," Littlefinger said sympathetically. "We all make choices and we have no idea where the end was."

"Yet you also play a game in which you see every possible outcome and plan accordingly to the worst case scenario," Bran said.

"How did you-" Littlefinger asked. He caught himself, seeming to assume that his older sister had told Bran about it. "At any case, the world is full of chaos, an ugly pit…."

" _Chaos isn't a pit, chaos is a ladder_ ," Bran said, his voice seeming to lose all life. His eyes seemed to glass over and he stopped climbing the stairs. They were just over the half-way point, and he seemed to have had all-life and vitality drained from him.

"Lord Stark?" Littlefinger asked cautiously, confused at what was going on. It must have been a terrible surprise to hear his own words reflected back to him, words that was spoken in confidence to Varys. SO many years ago.

" _Yes, I am Lord Brandon Stark,_ " he said, turning his glassy-gaze at him. " _And I am much more. Brandon Stark is a fine vessel but there is so much more potential than a mere mortal such as yourself could ever understand, Lord Petyr Baelish the Littlefinger. The games you play are nothing against what comes for all the living."_

Bran seemed to come out of the fit, and he began to tremble exceedingly. "Help….help me….help me sit," his voice trembled. His body was shaking so violently that he was in danger of falling down the stairs.

It took some doing, but Littlefinger was able to help him turn around and sit. Bran felt drained of all energy and he sat leaned forward with his forehead pressed against his knuckles. The violent shaking swept through his entire body, and Bran could hear his leg braces chattering as the rapped each other and the stone stairs.

"Should I fetch the maester?" Littlefinger asked, his voice filled with concern. "It would not take…."

"No," Bran said, his voice quaking, "I just….I just need time."

He let out a few long breaths, meant to steady himself. After a few long minutes, he was calmed enough that he could pull back from his knuckles. He leaned against the stairs, which now was an insurmountable height. He glanced down, and saw his crutches had fallen down the stairs to the bottom.

"Damn," he muttered. "I really hate those fits."

"They do look trying, my lord," Littlefinger said. "Perhaps I should get your brother."

Bran held up his hand and shook his head. "No," he said, "It will be fine. If you could grab my crutches though and help me up the rest of the stairs when I am ready, I would be in your debt."

"Ah!" Littlefinger said with an amused smile. "I am the last person you want to have a debt to, because I always collect."

Bran knew that was true. It wasn't through some sort of vision to the past, although he had seen the moment that Littlefinger had said the words, "Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder." He had been in King's Landing, talking with a bald man. He wasn't sure whom that was, but Littlefinger had talked about a bird getting what she had coming.

"Was there something else you wished to talk to me about?" Bran asked. Wiping a bit of sweat that was sliding down his forehead.

"Yes," he nodded. "I have a gift for you."

He reached to his side and grabbed something from inside his robe. Pulling it out, Bran saw a uniquely carved dagger. The handle was curved slightly and as Littlefinger pulled it from the sheath, he could see a masterfully shaped curved blade with a notch sticking out from it near the hilt. A ruby gem gleamed like an eye from the hilt.

"This was the dagger used in the assassination attempt on your life after you were crippled," Littlefinger said. "I give it to you now. As you will note, the blade is Valyrian steel. Very fine indeed."

"I'm a cripple, it's not like I'm going to be able to fight with it," Bran said in mild protest, but still took the blade from him eagerly. It felt so light in his hand, but he knew it's deadly potential. It could kill White Walkers and cause their undead soldiers to burst asunder. It was a mighty gift.

"Why would you give it to me?" he finally asked.

"You are the true Lord of Winterfell," Littlefinger assured him. "This is a symbol of the sacrifice your mother made to protect you. I saw the wounds on her hands and fingers received from grabbing it. When the need arises, let this be a token of my affection towards your family. And besides, I have my own dagger."

"May I see it?" Bran asked. When Littlefinger raised an eyebrow, he said, "I just want to compare the blades."

Littlefinger shrugged. "Of course you may," he said, and drew out his own dagger. Bran could see that it was straight bladed, with a handle that fit perfectly in Baelish's hands. It had been custom made for him. Twisting the knife so the blade was in his hand and not pointed at Bran, he handed over the dagger to him. Bran took the dagger hilt in his right hand, and felt the weight of it. It wasn't too bad at all.

He decided it would be interesting to compare the blade lengths, so he held out the Valyrian steel blade flat with his left hand, and with his right twisted the blade of Littlefinger's dagger until it was flat. Then, he put the blade on top of each other, tips pointed to the guard of each knife.

He raised them until they were inches below his chin. "The Valyrian steel is lighter than yours," he commented. He raised the blade angle a bit. "I wonder why….."

 _Eddard Stark stood before Bran, the throne room filled with the noise of combat. Men in golden cloaks and golden chainmail were attacking men Stark soldiers. He could tell by the armor, Winterfell soldiers always dressed and armored the same. Several fell as spears drove into them and the Hound stepped into the fray, cutting through a man as if he were nothing._

 _Eddard spun on his heel, grabbing his sword-hilt. Bran stepped up behind him, grabbing Eddard's left arm and pressed the blade of the dagger against his throat at an angle._

 _"I warned you not to trust me," Bran spoke, but it was Littlefinger's voice that said them._

The vision concluded and Bran stared at the blade, and then his eyes shifted to Littlefinger. Littlefinger noticed a shift in his demeanor but said nothing as Bran returned to blade silently to the other man. He took back his dagger and slid it back into his sheath.

"Can you grab my crutches?" he asked, his voice soft and quiet now. "I'd like to see my brother and sister now."

"Of course," Littlefinger said, and walked down the steps to grab the crutches.

Bran watched him, not taking his eyes off him as he tied the sheath to the Valyrian dagger to his belt. Suddenly the need to keep the dagger on hand was far more paramount then he had assumed. What games had he done in King's Landing? Was that the only role Littlefinger had played in the death of his father?

Littlefinger returned with the crutches and grabbing Bran by the upper arms, helped him to his feet. With that done, they turned Bran together until he was facing the right direction and began to ascent up the remaining eight steps.

Bran's first instinct was to call out Littlefinger before both his brother and sister. Tell them of the betrayal. It would only be fitting for Ned's children to pay him in-kind.

Yet, Littlefinger controlled the Vale. Could they afford to kill Littlefinger at a moment's notice and lose all that support? Thousands of heavily armored knights that would be useful in the war to come. The Night King had been very slow about starting up his march south, even though a few months back Bran had seen that they were basically ready to march.

At the top of the stairs, Bran inclined his head to Littlefinger. "Thank you, I can take it from here," he said.

"You are welcome, my Prince," Littlefinger said. "You can always trust help from me should you require it."

With that, Littlefinger turned and headed down the stairs, his cloak flowing. _No, I can't._ Except for Sansa. Littlefinger truly loved Sansa and would do anything for her. It made Bran now sick to his stomach to think that Littlefinger, whose hands were drenched in the blood of his father, had wanted to stick his wick into both his mother and sister.

With a shuddering breath, he continued to Sansa's chambers. No, he couldn't tell Jon about Littlefinger. Not yet anyways. However, when Littlefinger had played his part, _then_ Bran would tell Jon. That thought comforted him as he knocked on the door and waited for Sansa to open the door.

Sansa…..she needed to be warned off Littlefinger though. She had already suffered enough without being the victim to their father's betrayer.


	42. Epi 7, Ch 4: Jon

***Jon***

Jon chuckled as he saw Sansa eating the lemon cakes. For all her dainty ways when it came to eating in public where people could see, she was rather a slob in private. Crumbs were spilled onto the red dress she had decided to done that day, and her lips and fingers were covered in the sap that oozed from the sweets.

"What?" she asked, giving a self-conscious chuckle at Jon chuckles.

"You are a messy eater," Jon pointed out.

"Oh really?" she asked, "This from a man who makes loud noises every time he chews something."

"I am a King and don't do anything of the sort," he declared mockingly.

"Nom nom nom," Sansa retorted with her cheeks puffed out.

"At least I wasn't the one who broke into the pantry and stole a whole weeks worth of sweets," Jon cracked his knuckles as he said it.

Sansa's eyes grew wide. "You were the one who talked me into it!" she balked at the insinuation. "Next thing I know, somehow Robb discovered it and decided to rat us out to Mother."

"Me?" Jon asked with mock indignation, putting his hand to his breast. "I would never think of making the Lady Sansa of doing anything. Especially as a child. I talked you into doing nothing."

"Then we both lost our sweets for the entire week," Sansa said, crossing her arms and sticking out her tongue. "Robb and Theon made sure we knew about it, prancing around like they would and eat them in front of us!"

Jon let out a laugh, soft but clear, his face crinkling with the emotion. Sansa laughed as well, her voice just as clear as his was. Jon's body trembled from the force of the laughter but the mood turned somber a while. Jon let out a heavy sigh.

"That was the last time we did anything together in any spirit of happiness," he finally said. "After that, we grew apart. The Lady Catelyn….she did her work well, I fear."

"Yes," Sansa said, her voice no longer mocking in sorrow, but truly sorrowful. "Then you began talking about the Wall and well….I hated you for that decision. I felt you were always talking of leaving, only because I wasn't your friend anymore. Then you replaced all your affection for me with Arya."

"To tell the truth," Jon said, looking at the fire that crackled in the fireplace. There was no need, as the geothermal hotspots under Winterfell kept the chamber very warm. And it was daylight outside. "It was one of the reasons I decided to go to the Wall. I couldn't understand what had changed between us, and I figured that you had indeed grown to hate me. Even at the Wall….I tried, Sansa. I really tried to remember the good parts of our childhood. But all I could see was those last few years and how you wouldn't call me, 'Brother' but only 'Half-Brother', as if I was a stain in your sight."

"Ser Davos told me that you spoke only highly of me when you met him," Sansa said. Jon stared at the floor, not looking up at her. He closed his eyes, old anger simmering inside of him. Not a raging fire, but one that was always there.

"I knew that you were both most likely going to meet," Jon explained, "And I didn't want him having anything but the best impression of you. I wasn't Catelyn Stark, Sansa. No, I was Jon Snow, and I wasn't about to darken any man's impression of you."

Silence grew between them and Jon opened his eyes. He rested his pursed lips onto a raised fist which was propped against his leg. The old evils that always had haunted him were coming to the forefront. He hated himself for being unable to completely resolve the past and keep it in the dark.

He stared as he felt soft hands grasp his own. Jon turned to see Sansa sitting next to him, and with a soft motion she wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his cheek. The movement surprised him, but at the same time disarmed him, seeming to drop his walls that he had built to protect himself.

"I'm so sorry, Jon," she muttered. "I'm so sorry for what happened in the past. This is a new day, we might fight, but we are together. Jon, we are brother and sister, and we are the few Starks that remain. Can we please move forward?"

"Aye, we move forward together," Jon replied, and he turned and gave her a tight hug. As they were holding their embrace, there was a knock on the door. Jon let go of the hug, stood up, and mover to the door. The door opened, to find Bran standing there, holding his crutches under his arms and seeming to be taller than he had ever seen his little brother.

"Good," Bran nodded. "You are both here."

"Aye," Jon nodded. "And waiting for you. I'd assume that you'd be faster than us walking people, what with your extended steps you can take with them."

"Very funny," Bran said, and he hoped into the room. His crutches clattered on the stone with each step and Bran made a bee-line for a chair next to the fire. Jon moved to give him a hand, but Bran shook his head. It took some maneuvering, but he was eventually able to turn and slowly sank into the chair. A look of relief spread across his face as he took the seat. Jon retreated to the small couch he and Sansa were sitting on. Only to find Sansa laying across it entirely.

"Do you mind moving over so I can sit?" he asked, looking down at her elongated form on the couch.

"My chambers," Sansa held up a finger. "I can do what I want. You can sit somewhere else."

Jon rolled his eyes as he went to her bed and sat on it. The mattress was extremely firm, much firmer than he would have expected from Sansa. Why wouldn't she go for a very soft bed? Was it a way to remind herself that only strength can preserver in this world? Maybe nothing so deep as that.

"So what did you call us both here for Bran?" Jon asked, turning to him.

"Yes," Sansa put in. "I don't know why we couldn't just talk in your chambers. Or even in the Throne Room."

"Absolutely not!" Bran said with a fire and determination that surprised Jon. "What I am about to say is critical for us, and if word of this should get out, I hate to think what they would do."

"They?" Jon asked, frowning. He understood when something was of import, but was there really need to be so dramatic.

"Before you left for the Wall, you asked Father if he would tell you about your mother," Bran said, lacing his fingers before him. Bran use to do that as a kid when he would be telling 'something important' to their parents. "He said when he returned, he would go to the Wall and tell you. Unfortunately, he is now dead and cannot fulfill the oath he gave you. As the last living Stark male and with my gifts of sight, as Sansa is also aware of now, I will tell you about the truth of your parents."

Jon felt his heart jump into his throat and begin pounding hard. In his peripheral he could see Sansa sit up abruptly and lean forward as well, suddenly very interested. Yet he was focused exclusively on Bran.

At long last, he was going to learn who he mother was. He assumed that she was a weaver, or a farmer's daughter. Perhaps she was a fisherman's daughter, or perhaps the wife of some knight. Perhaps she was a widowed High Born lady.

Whomever his mother was, he would know for certain who he was. No longer would he wonder about the woman who had taken Eddard Stark's honor.

"During the Tourney of Harrenhal," Bran began, reciting his story, "Rheager Targaryen won the final tilt. He was given the wreath of flowers. With it, he was supposed to give it to his wife Elia Martell, naming her the Queen of Love and Beauty. Yet he did not stop at his wife, but continued on until he came to a girl betrothed to Robert Baratheon. Silence reigned as he gave the wreath to her, a woman known as Lyanna Stark.

"Shortly thereafter, he kidnapped and raped her. Or so the stories say. I have been trying to learn what I can about the exact events, but every time I do, there is a…..well, there is complications. That's all I'll say about that. But he either forced Lyanna or she agreed willingly to send a scroll to her father Rickard Stark and Robert Baratheon, telling them she had gone willingly."

"Wait…." Sansa said, her face showing how scandalized she was at the very notion. "You are telling me Lyanna sent a scroll stating that she had gone willingly? Why would she do that? Clearly Rheager forced her to do it. Otherwise, there would have been no need for a war."

"I agree but I don't know," Bran said with a shrug of his shoulders, "I am trying to ascertain what happened and what didn't. But I am telling you all that I know. Now, later on, before he met Robert on the Trident, Rheager was convinced that it was willing on her part and he was strumming his harp when the horns declared that Robert Baratheon was on his way to smash the Prince and his army."

 _As interesting as this is, what does this have to do with anything?_ Jon thought to himself. _Perhaps Aunt Lyanna did send a letter or not. Yet I've heard this story many times, of why Father went south._

"Well," Bran continued in his narration, "Rheager met his end on the Trident and shortly after, Eddard Stark with a few faithful warriors arrived in King's Landing, to find Jaime Lannister sitting on the throne. Yet there was no sign of Lyanna and after much searching they learned she was in Dorne, in the Tower of Joy."

"Look," Jon shook his head, his patience wearing thin. "We all know this. Maybe a few details are missing, but honestly Bran. What of my mother?"

Bran held up a finger and put it to his lips, shushing the King in the North. "He fought Ser Arthur Dayne and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower of the Kingsguard," Bran continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Gerold Hightower fell quickly, but Ser Arthur Dayne cut down every Stark against him. Father fought him, but was outmatched. Father would have been killed, had not Howland Reed, whom was presumed dead by Dayne, not stabbed him in the back. Father killed Ser Arthur with his own sword."

"You can't be serious!" Sansa exclaimed in disbelief. "Father killed him in fair combat. Not some nasty trick like that."

"I have seen it," Bran assured her, "Just like I saw the drunken fool who helped you escape the Purple Wedding, Sansa."

Now this was news indeed! Their father had lied about the death of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning! But why? Why would he do something like that? It didn't seem very honorable of Ned Stark, at least, not the Ned Stark that Jon knew.

 _But what of my mother?_ Jon wondered to himself. _I don't want to know all this other shit. I just want to know who my mother is dammit!_

"After killing Ser Arthur Dayne, Father ran up into the Tower of Joy, where he heard a woman screaming," Bran continued through his retelling of event. "Upon entering the room, he found Lyanna in a bed of her own blood."

"May the Gods damn those Kingsguard!" Sansa slammed her fist on the armrest, her uncharacteristic outburst of anger and vulgarity catching both her brothers by surprise. "They killed Aunt Lyanna, just to spite Father!"

"No," Bran shook his head. "There was a midwife nearby, with Lyanna's son. She told Father his name, but I couldn't hear it. I'm sure if I went back, I could hear it. She begged Father to protect the child, and he took the child with him North."

"That's impossible!" Jon snapped, jumping to his feet in annoyance. "I was the only child Father brought back north. There has been nothing said about Aunt Lyanna having a child as well, because he would have brought two children back!"

"There was no other child he brought back," Bran informed him. "Only one boy."

"What are you talking about…." Jon began but he turned to Sansa, whose eyes were wide with shock. "What's the matter with you?"

"Jon," Sansa said, her voice almost so soft that Jon couldn't hear. "Father found one child in the Tower of Joy. Father only brought one child back home."

"Exactly!" Jon said exasperatedly, "Me!"

Why couldn't they understand that fact? There wasn't two children. Only one, and that was Eddard Stark's bastard son! So why was there suddenly talk of another child?

"Jon," Bran said, nearly as exasperated as his brother was, as he was having to spell it out. "Your mother was Lyanna Stark, and your father was Rheager of the House Targaryen. You aren't a Snow Jon. You are a Blackfyre, a bastard son of the House Targaryen."

Jon's mouth dropped open, as he suddenly understood. How many times had people been forced to spell things out for him? Joer Mormont had done so at Craster's Keep. Maester Aemon had done the same when trying to teach him. But now…..his brother was telling him, what exactly?

"What are you saying?" he asked.

"I'm saying you are Targaryen bastard, Jon," Bran said. "And we aren't brothers and Sansa isn't your sister. You are a cousin of ours, raised by Eddard Stark as his own child to protect you from Robert's wrath."


	43. Epi 7, Ch 5: Cersei

***Cersei***

Cersei put the goblet to her lips, her eyes fastened onto the man sitting across from her. Despite being basically a pirate of the seas, Euron Greyjoy could be very civilized company. When he chose to be, she was sure.

"How are you finding King's Landing?" she asked, sipping the white wine.

"It Is what it is," Euron waved his hand dismissively. "It's a city, just like any other. To tell the truth, there are only two things that really are different here compared to other cities."

"Oh really?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow. "And what could that be?"

"First off," he sat, plucking a grape from the plate and plopping it into his mouth. "The throne is here. I have been many places, Your Grace, and most thrones are bland, ordinary affairs. Nothing to brag about, even though they do. Brag I mean. Fools think just because they have a chair made out of wood, or stone, that it means something."

"It doesn't?"

"No," he shook his head. "A throne needs to represent true power, and the Iron Throne does that. It's very appearance speaks of victory over one's enemies. That's what it's all about. Defeating an enemy isn't enough. When you see that look in their eyes, when they have to admit to themselves that they have lost and that it's you who proved their undoing, that's when you have true and utter victory."

Cersei agreed with the philosophy. She had wondered what looks had been on the High Sparrow's face when his Gods had abandoned him. What had Margery, that bitch who stole her sons, what had been her last words? Had they been acknowledging her supremacy?

The very thought made Cersei wet from a sexual excitement that she had very rarely felt. Even Jaime had never gotten her aroused like the very idea of demolishing her enemies had. Strange, wasn't it. That it was the things that were supposed to disgust that were what truly enraptured one's soul.

"What was the second thing that is here you can't find anywhere else?" she asked.

"Why, you of course," Euron smiled, his smile pleasing to the eyes but Cersei could see the predatory nature of it. "As a little boy, I always wanted to marry the most beautiful woman in the world. Beauty is not just skin-deep. The Boltons prove that every time they flay the flesh off a man or woman. But beauty is also power. And you have both, beauty of the flesh and beauty of power."

"So that's what you want is it?" Cersei asked, holding her goblet between both hands. "My power."

"Well," Euron gave a lewd smile. "Not _only_ that. I also want to see you naked, if your breasts really are as big as they look inside your dress and what you look like down below. I also want to know if you like a finger in the bum."

Cersei scoffed. "You are a vulgar bastard, aren't you?" she asked.

"Is it really that I am vulgar, or the world is just too civilized and soft for a man who speaks the blunt truth?" Euron asked.

"Bring me Dragonstone, and you will find out everything about me that your heart desires," she told him. She lifted her goblet back up to her lips. "And we'll see just _how_ good you are in bed."

Euron's lips curled in something akin to a feral grin as he plopped another grape in his lips. Cersei had too often run into people who thought they were either superior to her, or treated her with disdain. Although Euron's treating her like an equal and an object to be both worshipped and ravaged were perhaps dissingenuis, she couldn't dismiss his magnetic personality, that cried to be smothered in his charisma.

* * *

Later that night, she lay in a tub filled with hot water. The black-haired hand-maiden had been in her service…how long was it? As she moved the cloth across Cersei's legs, washing them for her, she began to wonder about that.

"Bernadette," Cersei said, as she began to scrub a particularly stubborn dirt of grim off her leg near her ankle. How the Hells did she acquire grim like that in the first place? It wasn't like she was going out and about, whoring herself or working in the filth of the city. "How long have you been in my service?"

"Since your return from Winterfell several years back, Your Grace," the hand-maiden said.

"You have been very faithful to me," she asked. "Why?"

The hand-maiden shrugged, finishing the spot and moving to her feet. "It's a privilege to serve you, Your Grace. You have been the Queen and even Queen Regent for many years. Anyone would be lucky to serve you."

Cersei harrumphed at that. If that truly was the case, then why had so many declared for the Dragon bitch? Why was she having to go to such extraordinary lengths to keep what was hers? House Targaryen had wasted their chance at ruling the Realm. Why couldn't she have just stayed in Essos where people actually wanted her?

"Do you have a family?" Cersei asked, "You never talk about them."

"Your Grace hasn't exactly been curious about that subject," Bernadette said, then stopped and flushed. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not mean…."

"No," Cersei stopped her with a raise of her fingers. "Be honest with me. I have too many sycophants who only tell me what I want to hear. It would be nice to hear some truth in private. But please, tell me about your family."

"Well, my father is a cobbler from Goldengrove, and a fine one if I may boast," she said, moving her cloth to the inner leg and scrubbing away. "My parents were very young when they married, and I never recall them arguing when I was growing up. Perhaps in private, but I never heard their voices raised in anger."

Cersei didn't know if she believed _that_. Perhaps the first few months when everything was bliss could a couple not argue, because for them, it was all cocks and tits. Then they began to truly see the other person they had the misfortune of marrying and then it was arguing.

"I envy you if that was indeed the case," Cersei said truthfully. "I don't remember much of my father and mother's life together. But I do remember a couple of good arguments. Not that I can tell you what they were bitching to each other about, but my mother could hold her own against Tywin Lannister. That is also a regret of mine, arguing with Robert in front of our children."

"I thought they were only yours," Bernadette said. Cersei's eyes flashed with annoyance and anger at being corrected. The handmaiden muttered an apology but Cersei shook her head.

"I did say honesty, didn't I?" the Queen sighed. "Don't be sorry for doing exactly what I said you should. You are right of course, my girl. But, it was Robert who raised them, if raised is the word you could use for it." She sighed dipped her hand in the warm water and swirled it in the warm water. "You have brothers and sisters?"

"Three sister and four brothers," Bernadette told her.

"Gods be good!" Cersei exclaimed, "Your father must have torn your poor mother apart!"

The handmaiden's face turned scarlet in embarrassment. She shrugged her shoulder and continued to bath her Queen. Cersei could not imagine what the hand-maiden's mother must look like now. It had taken everything Cersei could to keep the well-fit frame she did, even though her body did show in places still the stress of pregnancy. Those never fully go away.

"Do you have a lover?" Cersei asked.

"I am betrothed, yes," she said, moving to her other leg. "He is a Knight of the Reach that use to serve as a protector to Queen Margery."

"Ah…." Cersei nodded her head. "A dashing figure, a white knight on equally white steed. A man of chiseled abs and a face like a glorious sunrise. Teeth that are so dazzling white that the sun glints off of them. That is the type of image that has had maiden all throughout time fingering themselves."

"He is a dream," Bernadette agreed, "But I've never fingered myself, Your Grace. I find it a disgust habit, and my sisters used to do it all the time. I find it vulgar."

"Come now," Cersei scoffed, "You can't be telling me you've never explored yourself to see what makes you feel good."

Bernadette kept her face straight as stone as she shook her head. "Never," she said, "I want my lord husband to be the very first time I have experienced pleasure."

Well, if that was the case, then Cersei had to applaud the handmaiden for her fortitude. Cersei certainly never had had that stern discipline. Otherwise, she wouldn't have fucked her brother. Anyone who thought it was the other way around fooled themselves. Jaime might have worn the breeches, but it was Cersei that had called the shots and said when and where they would do it. Except that small episode in the Great Sept.

"You seem fertile enough to have children," Cersei commented. "Take some advice that I gave that traitorous murderous bitch Sansa Stark after her flowering. Guard your heart and give your love only to your children. In that regard, you have little choice, the issue is forced. Perhaps your husband, but beyond that, hold your affections tight to your breast. Otherwise, you will be made the fool of again and again."

"I will take that to heart, Your Grace," Bernadette agreed, and she continued bathing Cersei.

After that last, all talk basically ended. Cersei withdrew into herself, thinking about all the trails she had gone through in her life. Could Tywin have done better? How would he have dealt with the situation at hand? She hoped that what she was doing would outshine anything her father did.

So many people compared her to Tywin. No, she wasn't Tywin. She was better than him! She was better because no one expected anything of her. Oh no. Ever since she had been a child, Tywin had told her again and again that her duty was to the family. Not only was she bound to upholding the family honor that he restored, but to grow it.

How was she to grow that honor? By being sold off like a brood mare to a drunk. Spread her legs and suffer the fool to come inside of her. She had surpassed that, and now she was the Queen of the entire Realm. By the time Winter was done, no one would remember what had come before, but only that Cersei Lannister, First of Her Name, ruled the Seven Kingdoms.


	44. Epi 7, Ch 6: Davos

***Davos***

The sound of hammers and chisels rang out in the narrow walls of the cave system that delved down from Dragonstone. Davos had known about these caves, but had never actually explored them when he served Stannis. No, his duties never brought him beneath the ground, but now he was free to do just that, especially since it was his duty.

Honestly, if anyone had ever asked him why he believed in the old tales yet denied the existence of the Seven or the Lord of Light, he'd have never been able to articulate why. Hells, he could barely articulate the words on a page out-loud, even with years of practice now. No, he never had believed in the Gods because his gut told him there were no all-powerful beings who were massive cunts for disrupting the lives of ordinary folk. However, his gut _told_ him the Night King was real and his Army of the Dead would soon be at the Wall.

He had lived by his gut, and by now, there was certainly enough of them to tell him a lot of stuff.

"Amazing, isn't it, Ser Davos?" the voice of the Red Woman said, stepping into the chamber of the cave he was standing in.

"Aye, that it is," he replied. He honestly was too enthralled by what he was looking at to give meaningless energy to his own hatred of Melisandre. No, her reckoning would come one day. Just not today. The knowledge of a future vengeance sated him for the moment.

The cave was drawn in chalk drawing from thousands of years ago. Spirals and other pictographs swirled around the black dragonglass that lined the caves like gold and silver in a mine. His lantern sparkles off the glass surface to illuminate even more so what he saw beforehand.

Yet what truly drew his attention was the figures drawn into the wall. Tall fair skinned humans of white chalking, towering over a small greenish folk. In their hands was crude weapons, although they were probably fierce some in real life.

And in the center, were creatures taller than the rest. They looked skeletal in their confines. Blue chalk was drawn for the eyes and Davos shivered. The eyes seemed more realistic than anything else in the cave. Even this crude drawing seemed to pull the very warmth from his body.

"You feel it," Melisandre said softly. "You feel the terror. The Night is dark and full of terrors, Ser Davos. This is but one of its servants, but deadlier than most."

"Fuck the night if it brings such terrors to the world," Davos muttered angrily, "Although I dare say your Lord of Light has spawned some dark shit from you."

"The Lord of Light is not averse to using the dark for his own ends," she said, reaching out to run her hand across the wall. Davos watched her long slender fingers running over the rough where dragon glass was absent. He could have sworn that he saw her hand glowing in the dark and a glow of red light lingered where her fingers ran over the obsidian.

 _Fuck that_ , he thought to himself. _She may have power, but that's no reason to let my imagination run away into fanciful places._

"We are both destined to die before the War for the Dawn is over," Melisandre said, her voice filled with a resignation and a finality that brooked no argument. "You will not be the one who shall end my life, Ser Davos. The one who will end my life has many eyes reflected through her own, eyes that she closed of many colors."

"Oh really?" Davos asked with a smirk. "And how am I to die?"

"Snow is falling over your body," she said, turning to him. The look in her eyes chilled him with more finality than the blue eyes in the Others faces on the wall. "A host marches past you, grinding you into the ground. That is your end Ser Davos. You, I and even the Spider of the Dragon are all destined to die in this strange country."

He stared at the Red Woman, a shiver running up his spine at her pronouncement of the doom of everyone around her. It unsettled him, to his very core. The power this woman wielded, made everything else seem paltry and second-rate. The conviction she stated this was not some proud boast like with Stannis being Azor Ahai. No, this seemed more pure. And it was that pureness that was frightening.

"And what of my end?" a new voice asked them. "What doom is in store for me?"

Davos turned to see the diminutive petite form of Daenerys Targaryen Stormborn enter the chamber. Two hulking Dothraki warriors walked behind her, casting their dark eyes with something akin to fear at the paintings surrounding them. One of them said something to the other and the other nodded his head. Whatever it was, it drew no comment from the Mother of Dragons.

"Your Grace." Davos inclined his head. "I did not realize you were visiting."

"I've basically allowed you free run of my caves," the young Queen replied, looking around her. "I wished to see what was this magical weapon you were mining for this war in the north you said is coming." She paused, looking at everything around her and the old smuggler saw Daenerys Targaryen's eyes seem to glisten in wonder. "So many thousands of years, did the original inhabitants know that we three would be down here, looking on their legacy?"

"Legacy?" Melisandre asked with an arched eyebrow. "No, but warning. This is a warning to those who come after them, telling them of the fear that marches from the north."

"And I ask you again," the young woman asked. "What doom do you see in your visions for me?"

" _Myself,"_ Davos corrected, a grin on his face as the young queen looked at him confused.

"It is hard for me to see the end of all people," the Red Woman replied. "But I do see that you already have seen your end. The visions that were granted to you so many years back is a revelation for your own eyes of the doom that awaits you."

Daenerys glanced at her doubtfully, but turned her attention instead to Davos. The Onion Knight had been in the presence of great Kings, but few he ever felt exuded such righteous and natural command as she did. To be sure, Jon was a man who demanded respect by his actions and he did nothing that did not advance the good of the Realm. Yet he wondered if he would have been so stubborn had he actuallly met the young Queen. She was certainly good enough with her looks that if nothing else, he'd punch a hole through his trousers.

Not Davos though. He was devoted to his wife. A wife he had not seen in a long time. Damn, he had to see her. See how she was, if her tits sagged any further than they had last time they had seen each other. He had very little excuse for not seeing his wife in the last few years, Stannis would have permitted a short visit.

"Tell me," Daenerys asked. "If you met with Jon Snow and pled my case before him, would he join House Targaryen? Would he bend the knee and save his people? Would he send soldiers to help in my war?"

Davos shrugged "He is a Northerner, Your Grace and even their young girls are as hard as ice that surrounds stone," Davos said, clapping his hands behind his back. "But he is a fair and just man. If I may, Your Grace, if you were to fly to Winterfell and speak to him, you may be surprised with how reasonable he is."

Daenerys' eyes hardened. "Leave us," she said, flicking a hand to dismiss her guards.

As the stalked out of the chamber, Melisandre also took her leave. She turned to Davos as she left and the look she gave him spoke volumes. _Good luck_. As he looked down at her, Davos began to feel as if he were an oversized deer being sized up by a small dragon. The deer may be fast and strong, but the dragon would always win.

Daenerys waited until they were alone before she spoke next. "How many Kings have you served as Hand?" she asked.

"Two," he answered, "Stannis Baratheon and Jon Snow."

"What animals were their Houses?"

"Stag and a Direwolf."

"By what right does the dragon beg from a wolf?" The Queen demanded. "A half wolf at that. You say Jon is a Snow. For all we know, his mother was a family with a fish for a sigil. That would make him a wolf fish."

"I have seen many fishes, Your Grace," Davos said with a smile. "A wolf fish would be a terrible fish indeed and one that I don't think I'd like to see."

"Yet why should I, the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, fly up north and beg for aid he should give willingly?" the Mother of Dragons asked him. "He is a bastard with no claim of any sort. He should be coming down here, on his knees, kissing the ground I walk on for not taking the North and burning him as a traitor as soon as I arrived in Westeros."

Davos could understand her frustration. She wouldn't come out and say it. But he had seen this before. Rulers who knew they needed help, but their pride refused to let them swallow their pride and do what needed to be done.

"I am not arguing rights or legitimacy, Your Grace," Davos said.

"Then what are you saying?" Daenerys asked, her eyes boring into his.

"There are far larger things at stake here then a throne, a damned cold one at that," he said. "A great evil is about to attack the world of the living, and it won't care one damn about…."

"Yes, yes," she rolled her eyes. "I know all about your grumpkins and snarks. Tell me truly though, why should a dragon be forced to beg for what should be given her? Dragons do not beg, but they take and are given tribute. Why should I go asking for his help?"

"Your Grace," he said, carefully choosing his words. "A good ruler can attract followers it true. But a great and wise ruler will do whatever it takes to do what needs to be done. It may be wise for you to make that step of faith and go to Jon Snow yourself."

"A man who you circumvented to get help for because he couldn't ask me for my aid himself?" She asked dubiously.

"Jon has the makings of greatness, Your Grace," Davos said, "Yet he is still inexperienced when it comes to ruling. You can show him what great rulers do!"

"Why should I take your word for that?" she asked him. "Has either of your Kings ever gone and asked for help, like a beggar for bread?"

"Yes," Davos replied, catching Daenerys off-guard with the declaration. "Stannis. He had lost the Battle of the Blackwater and most of his men deserted him. Few remained loyal, of either ships or swords. He was proud as well, Your Grace, one of the most stubborn men who had ever lived. Yet, he needed men, and the only waay he was going to get any was through mercenary companies. He moaned aand bitched about it clear to Braavos, but he bent his pride enough to allow him to beg for the money he needed to continue his claim for the throne."

Daenerys turned away from him, arms crossed as she studied the cave paintings. Davos hoped that he had gotten through to her. They would need her and her dragons in the North to fight off the coming storm, but she needed to see what was facing them. Only seeing would convince her of the magnitude.

When at last she spoke, it was calm and clear.

"I have already made the first overture," she said, her face set as she turned to him. "I have allowed you to mine my obsidian. You can mine until tomorrow nightfall, then, you must be gone."

"Your Grace…."

"I am leaving to fight the enemy on the field of battle itself," she rode over his attempt to interject. "I will burn all my enemies to the ground. Tell your master this, if he bends the knee before I sit on the Iron Throne, I will fight alongside him. If he does not, then I will still go to the North. But I will visit upon Winterfell the same destruction that Aegon the Conqueror visited upon Harrenhall."

With that, Daenerys walked out of the cave, head held high and proud. Davos felt himself deflate, as if all the wind had been driven from him. What was it with all the cunts as leaders? Yes, they could only see what was before them and had their own priorities. Yet was it so hard for them to do what was _truly_ needed for the Realm, and not their own narrow dogmatic goals?

He turned to see through the entrance to the chamber, and Melisandre was standing there. Her own face seemed to speak of the doom he felt was about to fall upon them all.

 _To be continued in **Episode 8: The Spoils of War Part 1...** Monday the 23rd._

* * *

 _ **-We are almost at the big event of the first half of the season! I hope my take on this massive event will land well.**_

 _ **-I really sped through this episode, simply because I wanted to not have to worry about working on it over the weekend. And my version of the Spoils of War is happening soon and I'm excited to jump into it!**_

 _ **-If you noticed, the chapters went a rather weird way this time. The first and last chapter were in Dragonstone. The second and fifth chapters were POVs of the Lannister twins. And the middle two chapters were Stark chapters. I liked the symmetry of doing that this episode.**_

 _ **-I felt that Tyrion resigning as Hand of the Queen was both a selfish act, but also an understandable one. He has been trying to talk Daenerys down from commencing a scorched earth war against the Lannister loyal forces, but his sway over her council was shaky at best, and he knows that she will no longer listen to his council. Especially when she is so pissed that she is hurling idiotic accusations against him. Also, the thing that really broke it was the fact that he realizes that Daenerys doesn't trust him enough to tell him his niece was dead. That more than anything sealed the deal.**_

 _ **-A guest pointed out in a message to me that Jaime wouldn't have been able to fight nearly as well as he did in the Battle of the Prince's Pass last episode. It was a great way to show that in his own view, he is a fucking legend still. Yet the other around him are like, "Yeah...it didn't happen like that." An interesting way of showing how we view our own accomplishments at times much grander then they actually are.**_

 _ **-I was never sure until this episode how I was going to play Ser Arys Oakheart. At the start of the story, I knew I wanted him to be brought in and play with the Arianne storyline. However, my original thought was to have these two not met in life, but to have Ser Arys get killed in the next big battle. But, this actually served a more poignant emotional moment, where we are faced with the fact that Ser Arys had no loyalties to House Lannister and was fighting only for a certain cause and now that the cause is finished, he's bailing. The lack of loyalty to House Lannister is really going to show in the remainder of the season.**_

 _ **-One reviewer pointed out that Blackfyre isn't a bastard name, but a house name, and Jon wouldn't be a Blackfyre, because otherwise he'd be legit. That is my bad, lol. I will be keeping it in the story for one reason. We know Bran had a hard time with names of Houses, their allegiances and their House words. We saw it back in season 2. So, I am retconning that he claims Jon's a Blackfyre simply because he is confused about what the bastard name of a Targaryen would be.**_

 _ **-The question has been asked if I will do a Season 8. The answer is...maybe. There is so much story remaining (14 episodes), that I don't even want to think about it right now. lol It will depend upon 1, how burned out I am at the end of this. And 2, how much desire there is for season 8.**_

 _ **-I wasn't sure whether I wanted to do Sansa or Jon for the Jon chapter. If it had been Sansa, we were going to do much the same, but it was going to end with Bran asking Jon if he speak with Sansa alone and then telling her about Littlefinger's betrayal. But don't fear! It will be addressed.**_

 _ **-I also debated having the last chapter not be Davos, but Grey Worm as the POV. He's not on Dragonstone, but on Massey's Hook, which is south of Dragonstone. It was going to be a way to end the episode with a pretty hard setup for next episode.**_

 _ **-Now my fellow Throners! Brace yourselves, because we are hitting a two-parter that will be extra crazy on Monday!**_


	45. Ep 8: Spoils of War Pt 1,Ch 1: Grey Worm

**Episode 8: Spoils of War Part 1**

* **Grey Worm***

Honestly, Grey Worm remember almost nothing of his life prior to being a slave. He had been a small child, he almost wanted to say he remembered his mother. A kind woman of big saucer eyes and hair like dirty copper. There was also a man, with large hands, hands so big he could wrap his hands completely around little Grey Worm's head. He knew his birth name, but would not speak it, even in the privacy of his own mind. It was a cursed name, for it was that name that he had when he had been taken by slavers.

Dothraki had raided his village when he had been about nine. He remembered the screams of the villagers, the way his father's head had fallen off. In his mind's eye, Grey Worm remembered it as being a very clean affair. Yet his time in the Unsullied taught him the truth of decapitations.

Then there had been his mother. How many times had she been raped? He didn't know, but he remembered the look of her being ravaged and the noises she made as she unwillingly enjoyed the harshly rough feeling of being penetrated by the Dothraki. He had no idea what became of his mother with the big saucer eyes. He had been taken by the Khal to Yunkai, where he had been sold.

He remembered the man who had bought him. He had been a fat man, with no hair on his head. He had been groping his stones as he looked at the young Grey Worm. And Grey Worm had been fucked the very first time in his entire life that night. He had only been nine at the time, but by the time the fat master had finished with him, he had been unable to walk for two full days.

When he finally been able to stand, the Master had told him that he had passed his first test, and now was time for the second. Grey Worm had been chosen to be an Unsullied, and as such, it was time to begin his training. He had been told to draw a paper from a large urn. He had drawn a paper from there, and had seen two words on it.

"Today you are Yellow Shit," the Master had told him. "Every day you will draw a new name. A new name with color and a piece of filth. You might be lucky to pick a vermin one day."

Yellow Shit. Silver Dirt. Red Vomit. Brown Feces. Green Lard. White Rat. White Cock.

He had no idea of how many names he had been given over time. There had been so many. The very next day he had been carted off to Astapor to begin his training. He was a little older than the rest of the boy who had begun his training, most of them only five. Yet he soon discovered that these boys were far more fierce than he was.

They had beaten him bloody many times, and each time he had become angrier. He had gone days where all his fingers had been broken, but somehow he had been able to get them to heal properly. Ribs had been broken, he had been cut several times. Yet he had always avoided being killed.

Every day with every meal, he had been given the wine of courage, and he found himself becoming dulled to pain and fear. Not that he had ever had fear. No, he had never been fearful, even when the Dothraki had raided his village. Even when his mother was being raped, he had been more curious than anything else. He had never seen his mother having sex with his father, so he had found the whole thing rather fascinating, in a perhaps sick sense.

Then, when he had been eleven, he had bludgeoned the head of another boy in who had tried to kill him. The boy had laid on the ground, gasping for air as his head had spilled out. When the Masters had seen this, they told him he was ready.

They had that night cut him. He had been given nothing to dull the pain, but there was little need. He remembered blood jettisoning out of his now exposed manhood, and watched as they flayed open his parts. He had been on an altar in the temple for the Lady of Spears. He watched as first his stones, and then the pillar were tossed into the flames. He had been mystified by the blue fires that erupted from his manparts.

They had then given him two things. Bandages to stop the bleeding. And a puppy. It had been a fluffy puppy, weirdly striped down his body between orange and black stripes. Strangle the puppy, the Good Master had told him. He had felt nothing towards the puppy as he gripped its neck between both hands and throttled it to death.

"Good," the Good Master nodded his head. "Had you failed, we would have slit your throat, torn out your tongue between the wounds, and tossed it onto the fire as well."

Black Shit had been his name that day. The next day he had been sent forth, still bleeding from his wound, and commanded to kill a babe. The babe he had chosen had been from a slave of pale skin and hair of chestnut. She was feeding the baby from her tit when he killed the child. It had been a masterful stroke, slipping between her arms and missing her breast entirely. His name had been Purple Mud.

So he had continued in much the same manner for several more years, training hard, from dawn until dusk. Unlike most Unsullied though, he still had lusted after women. Was it strange that the moment that his awareness of the other sex really had come from seeing the enlarged breasts of the woman whose child he had killed?

His training made his completely capable of compartmentalizing his lust, and at times completely block it. Yet…he had once snuck out of the barracks on his sixteenth birthday to visit a young girl he had seen in Astapor. They had both been inexperienced in the matters of love, but he had been able to leave with a feeling of satisfaction, and he hoped that the brown skinned girl had enjoyed it. Yet those times had been few and far in between.

At the age of seventeen he was given his spear and shield. It had been a proud moment for him, Yellow Mouse. He had been sent on his first campaign against the city of Mereen, where a small group of Masters had decided to try to overthrow the rulers there. Since that day, he had been only thirty different campaigns, had fought in six dozen battles and a hundred small skirmishes.

He remembered that morning though. He had gone to sleep as Green Cockroach. It had been a good day that day, he had only been asked to cut off the hand of one run-away slave. The next day, he had drawn the name Bronze Refuse. He had been marched into the presentation plaza as he and the other Unsullied had come to call it. There had been a young woman, silver of hair with two older men who had been brought forward that day.

He had seen the disgust in their eyes when Purple Lint had his nipple cut off as a demonstration of their complete obedience. The rest of them had been made to stand there for two days without sleep. Bronze Refuse had only been brought in a couple of hours beforehand, to give the appearance of freshness after so many hours standing.

The next morning, he had drawn the name Grey Worm. The entire barracks had been filled with talk that the Silver Haired Woman had bought all eight thousand Unsullied and the two thousand Uncut, their name for the boys in training who had not yet become true Unsullied. He had been there when the Whip of Command had passed to Daenerys Targaryen, and then had responded without question to her command to kill the Masters. Did he regret doing so?

No, he had enjoyed every moment of killing the Masters and every soldier in Astapor. So much had been lost of his life because of them, that he had reveled in the spilling of their blood. He had made sure to end the life of the Good Master who had cut him receive a slow death, by cutting both of his main arteries in his legs.

He had been surprised when Queen Daenerys Targaryen had asked them to choose to follow her. He had been the first to pound his butt of his bloodied spear into the ground, for he was one of the few who could remember what the freedom to choose was truly like. He had been surprised again when the other Captains had chosen him to be the commander of the Unsullied.

"Why do you not choose a new name for yourself?" Daenerys asked when learning his name. "Why not the name you were given by your parents."

"That name is cursed, for it is the name I had when made a slave," he had told her. "Grey Worm is the name I had the day Daenerys Targaryen freed me."

Now, it was dark, he was on another continent on another side of the world. The smells were strange, the languages being spoken were foreign to him. Yes, he had been being taught by Missandei of the Island of Naath. Yet her teachings had not truly prepared him to keep up with the speed, accents and slurring that many people used in their speech.

"Who did you first kill?" Silver Snake asked him, the hulking Unsullied the largest of his captains. He was not referring to the time before he was truly Unsullied or even the baby. He was talking about as Unsullied, during his battles as one.

"A boy that was son to a Master in Mereen," Grey Worm told him. "The boy had more courage than wisdom and tried to stop us from killing his father. Brave but foolish. I drove my spear into his eye."

"Mine was a whore that was robbing the Good Masters blind," the other eunuch told him. "I was told to drive my spear into her cunt. A message that all whore that you could not fuck the Good Masters."

"I doubt she liked that spear, unlike the others she ever had," Grey Worm remarked.

"Let us say that she passed out as soon as the cold tip of the spear touched her," Silver Snake recalled, "I didn't even drive it in before she had passed out."

Grey Worm thought that was peculiar but said nothing about it. There were no trees outside the town of Stonedance. There was a long line of rolling hills that broke up the landscape and the outline could be seen in the quarter moon that was shining down on them. A fire crackled merrily behind them, and several other Unsullied were gathered around.

"The Dothraki are getting to the point of mutiny," Silver Snake said. "They want to fight and for over two months they have been here with almost no fighting. The Queens command not to rape has been unheeded by several of the Dothraki and today I was forced to put two to death. Tell me, Grey Worm. When shall we fight?"

"The Queen will let us know when it is time," Grey Worm assured him. "Not a moment beforehand."

They both fell silent, looking at the region, looking for any sign of intruders. The Westerosi did not seem inclined to fight them, but Grey Worm knew they were tough fighters. He had spent much time with Ser Jorah Mormont and Ser Barristen Selmy, learning all he could about the enemy he would fight. The soldiers of Westeros wore heavy armor of plate and chainmail. They carried longbows, curved bows and crossbows. Their knights rode on heavily armored horses.

Grey Worm did not question that their own discipline far outstripped the enemy here. Yet, he also did not believe the Lannister soldiers would be an easy victory. The sound of wind blew across the night sky, and he looked around to see where the wind was coming from.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Three black shadows filled the night and came closer and closer. Grey Worm lifted his spear and pointed towards them. Silver Snake followed the shadows and turned and barked a command to those around the fire. "The Queen arrives!"

Grey Worm waited until the dragons filled the night sky before them, blocking out the stars and moonlight before bending the knee. The men formed a line and knelt. They put their curled left fist on the ground while the right hand clutched their spears which they held point up and butt on the ground.

The ground trembled slightly as the dragons landed one by one. He held his pose for a few minutes, not glancing up. The people of Yunkai had called Daenerys Targaryen 'Mysha'. Mysha meant mother, and he felt that way towards her. She was a mother, treating him and his men as living human beings, not just the vermin and filth that their names implied.

"Arise, my Unsullied," she said.

Grey Worm did so, the others following suit. He could tell she was wearing very dark clothing. She looked diminutive against the dark form of the dragon, a growl rumbling through his throat. She turned a put a hand on the dragon's neck.

"Be nice, Viserion!" she scolded the dragon. "These are friends. Forgive Viserion, this is his first time being chosen to carry his mother, and he seems to have taken it to his head. Haven't you, boy? Yes, whose a good boy?"

The dragon made a noise and lowered his head. The Queen began to rub his neck playfully, as if petting him. In the low light of the fire, he seemed even more intimidating then the green dragon did in sunlight. Yet Grey Worm couldn't help looking at him right now and being reminded of a giant cat being pet by his owner.

"We are honored to be having my Queen be here," Grey Worm said, the idea of the dragon ass an overly large cat humorous.

"That is you, Grey Worm?" she asked, letting go of petting the dragon and stepping forward. She looked up at him and he could see a smile forming on her face. "Good, I didn't know if I would find you. Go and bring me all the khals and the Captains of the Unsullied. It is time we exact vengeance on the enemy for the losses we've sustained."


	46. Epi 8, Ch 2: Sansa

***Sansa***

With a single moment everything had changed. Sansa had always known Jon was different. She had always known he was a sort of outcast within the family. Yet now, she understood at a very intimate level just how different he was.

And honestly, she had no idea what to make of it.

She had always seen him as a brother. She had believed he was family, base-born though he was. Yet now to learn that Father had lied to the entire family for all their lives? Jon seemed to have taken the revelation in-stride. It hadn't even really changed Jon's status all that much. He was still a bastard.

Then why was Sansa feeling so conflicted about it then?

She clenched her hands into fists, pressed them together and shoved her eyes into them. Her vision filled with red behind the lids from the pressure. She was now the oldest child of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. If this had been Dorne, she would have been Heir to Winterfell and she'd be the one ruling.

 _"Who should the Lords of the North rally behind? A bastard born in the South? Or the last living daughter of Eddard Stark, a true Stark?"_

Had Littlefinger known? She reexamined every single talk she had ever had with him. There was a time that they had been in the crypts looking at Lyanna Starks statue. He had talked about how her beauty had caused a war and how many people had died because Rhaegar chose her. "Yeah, then Rhaegar kidnapped and raped her." She remembered the pause from Petyr and how he seemed to smile as if saying, "Dear sweet summer child."

Had he known and never told her? Had her mother known and that was the reason she was so cruel to Jon? Then what of Jon? Why did they force him to go through his own life believing he was one of Ned's children? Would it have changed how she or any of them had felt about him?

They had accepted Theon as one of their own!

"It's not fair!" she shouted angrily and slammed her fist against the Godswood tree.

Her hand rested on it, and she trembled from all the pent-up confusion and emotions that swirled around inside of her. So many emotions battled for supremacy inside her. Anger at everyone for lying to her. Anger at Jon for not being what he had always been told.

She had come out to the Godswood to try to find peace, find answers. Yet nothing came forth. Not one single thing! It was not fair, to leave her in darkness like this. Didn't she deserve some measure of peace? Why was her entire life one disappointment or terrible surprise after another?

Couldn't Jon just be her bastard brother? Was it too much to ask?

"Dammit!" she screamed, hitting the tree again. She knew it was sacrilege, but she didn't care. "Why does this always happen to me? Why have you Gods never answered any of my prayers? Why have you taken everything from me? My father, then my brother and brother. My sister is gone, perhaps dead and long since turned to bone. You even stole my half-brother from me! Why?!"

The Godwood was quiet. It said nothing to her. The ancient weirwood with its two eyes that bled red sap and that mouth that hung open. She became extremely angry at that.

"You don't get to cry!" she screamed and grabbed the lips and with her fingers and fingernails dug into the wood, intent to rip them off. "You don't get to…."

 _Images flashed through her mind, in rapid succession. Every single one was crystal clear, but they flashed by with barely enough time to register them. Her father as a younger man, holding a bundle close to his chest while on a horse. Catelyn Stark towering over a frightened Jon Snow, a red mark across his face from where her mother had slapped him hard. A young woman and a man of silvery hair sitting next to a window. Why did that woman look so much like her father? Wass that Lyanna?_

 _Men fought in a roaring river, falling from blows and giving them. A fireball falling through the sky and slamming next to a large white wall, smashing into the ground with a massive explosion of snow and dirt and the wall shattered at the impact. A man tied to a tree with mouth gagged, small creatures approaching with a dagger of stone._

Sansa tried to let go of the tree. Fear swelled through her as she couldn't pull free. It was like the wierwood was determined to hold her there. Determined to fill her mind with images and visions that she could not understand.

 _Jon standing in a cave, a woman whose hair was kissed by fire, pulling off her boots and saying something that Sansa couldn't make out. A forest was burning for miles and miles, giants silhouetted by the flames. A dwarf, Tyrion she realized with a start, sitting in a room, his face depressed. Jon again she saw, this time with another woman, another one kissed by fire, tall and fair, grabbing Jon's hand and pressing it against her cheek._

 _Gods be good, just how women has Jon been with?_ Sansa wondered. No longer was she trying to fight the images, for they were intriguing, and she wondered what these all meant.

 _Bran was climbing the broken tower, and stopped by a cracked section, hearing two people moaning. Eddard Stark sat in a dark cell, chains holding him to the wall. She saw herself standing at her wedding to Tyrion, a vision of beauty. Theon stood over two small boys at a nearby farm, men standing behind them, strangling them. A man with long flowing silver hair sat on the Iron Throne, his face contorted in rage._

 _A filthy girl sat in rags, her eyes milked over. Arya? A man held up his goblet to a hall filled with many of his sons. Arya was now on a horse next to an inn, bodies hung from trees._

 _Dragons soared over King's Landing, belching flame down on the city. A young woman rose from the middle of ashes, baby dragons draped in her arms. Jon and this woman, older now, stood on a wall at Winterfell. A body of a woman was carried into the crypts of Winterfell, snowing draping the solemn procession that carried the woman, red hair slipping out of the death sheet._

 _Is that….my hair?_ Sansa asked in alarm.

With a snap the visions ended and she felt as if a hand had pushed her hard. She found herself thrown backwards and land hard into the snow and the ice of the pond. The snow puffed around her, and she grunted as she felt the pain of her back having connected with the ice.

Slowly, she sat back up, staring at the tree. What had she just seen? There were so many images. Few of them were clear, but she felt as if she had just witnessed the whole history of their family in just mere moments.

"Powerful, isn't it?" a voice asked her and she started. She looked to see Bran was sitting on a rock next to the weirwood tree. "The moment you first see what has come before you. My first time seeing beyond just a black three-eyed raven and through the eyes of Summer surprised me to say the least."

"What….what was that?" she asked, looking at the tree with trepidation, like it would reach out to grab her. Like a tree from legend. "What did I see? How long have you been here? How long was I…."

"Much, a while and a while," Bran replied with a grin. Seeing the look on her face, he waved his hand absently. "I walked myself out here and I saw you gripped to the weirwood in a death grip. I've been here for perhaps an hour. How are your fingers by the way? You dropped your gloves."

As he said that, she suddenly felt feeling in her fingers. Looking at them, they were cold and she could barely move her fingers. She rubbed her hands together and blew on the fingers, trying to warm them. Bran tossed her gloves to her, his crutches laid across his lap. They fell short, but Sansa scrambled to grab them and slide them over her hands.

Chilled, she jammed her hands under her armpits and pressed her arms shut. Even with her gloves on, the additional body heat would be welcome.

"Why did you come out here?" Sansa finally asked, standing to her feet.

"Can't I come out to the Godswood as well?" Bran asked.

"That's not what I meant," she replied sourly. Sansa walked off of the ice of the pond, making sure to stop _well_ short of the tree. She didn't want to go through _that_ again. At least…not any time soon.

Bran smiled, and Sansa thought it looked really odd. How had Bran gotten such a big nose and set of ears? Neither of their parents had either feature and she had seen most of their living relatives….well, back when they had been living. None of them had that either as far as she could tell.

"I have to tell you something, away from Jon," Bran said.

"Oh really?" she asked, frowning as she sat by him, moving his crutches just far enough that she could sit. "Why couldn't it wait until I was back in Winterfell?"

"It has to do with Littlefinger and if Jon was to hear, he would make a very rash decision," Bran said.

Sansa chuckled. "Oh really?" she asked, "What could he have possibly done to raise Jon's cackles?"

* * *

Sansa stood outside Littlefinger's door. She breathed in and out, suddenly nervous. She was angry, furious even! She very well could see what Bran had told her. She also could understand that Bran wanted to keep this from Jon. Bran's reasoning, well….they made too much sense and she understood them.

"My lady?" a voice asked behind her.

She turned to see Yohn Royce walking up to her. He had always been a very congenial person, one that she had come to trust since her time in the Vale. Had Yohn Royce been around when she had been married to Ramsey, she was certain he would have charged the chambers and gutted her husband where he stood for raping her.

"My Lord Royce," she said, feeling relieved by the distraction. "You are a welcome sight."

"As are you, my lady," he replied. He stopped next to her, and they came almost eye to eye. It was rather rare for Sansa to find someone that she was close in height to. She was a tall woman, so she either towered or was below everyone. It was rather off. "May I ask what you are doing here, visiting Littlefinger?"

"I have to talk to him," she said, glancing at the door. "Yet…..it is a hard topic to speak of. I don't know if I have the courage to say what needs to be said."

Royce harrumphed. "If it has anything to do with him keeping the Hells away from you, my lady, I am all for it," he said. "Begging your pardon, Sansa, but he has too much interest for you to be anything but unnatural. You would do well to steer clear of him and to warn him off. If you would like, I could come in and give you a hand with it. Give you moral support."

"I thank you, and you are kind for offering," Sansa said, taking a deep breath. "This is something I must do alone."

Royce looked like he didn't agree with it. But he nodded and put a hand on her shoulder, giving a comforting squeeze. Dropping his hand, he walked away, humming to himself as he did so.

Sansa turned towards the door and knocked on it. A few moments passed but the door opened and Baelish stood in the door way, wearing fine leather that hugged his thin frame. A wide grin appeared on his face as he saw her.

"My Lady Sansa," he said, but his smile froze and faltered ass he saw her face. "Is something the matter?"

"I need to talk with you," she said, her voice surprisingly firm despite the anxiety in her.

His eyes furrowed in confusion but inclined his head and with a flourish held out a hand, indicating for her to come in. She walked in to the chambers, grateful for the warmth in them. Yet she was not there for warmth. Except her own anger towards him.

"What may I do for you, my love?" he asked, closing the door.

"Is it true?" she asked, not turning to face him.

"Is what true?"

"That you betrayed my father?" she asked, whirling on him. Littlefinger was blinking his eyes like an owl. "That you held a knife to his throat in the throne room? And you told him, 'I told you not to trust me?'"

"Sansa I….." he began, "How do you know?"

"Answer the question, Lord Baelish!" she snapped, not wanting to get into a verbal fencing match with him. "Did you betray my father and his men when they came to arrest Cersei and put her children into her chambers under guard?"

"Ah….you have a little bird!" he said, his voice filled with praise, "You have learned one of my greatest lessons, you should be proud of yourself. I will not guess what little bird is yours, even if crippled."

Sansa felt a stirring of pride at his admiration, but she clamped down on the feeling. No, she was pissed off, and she wouldn't be swayed from that emotion so easily. He was going to answer the accusation.

"It doesn't matter how I found out," she rejoined, "What matters is that you answer the charge. Did you betray my father is the throne room?"

"Yes."

The single word caught her by surprise. Was he not going to argue the point? Was he not trying to worm his way out of the accusation? He looked resigned, as if he knew this had to happen. Littlefinger moved to his table, and sat on the corner, folding his arms across his chest.

"Why?" she finally asked.

"Because he did not listen," Littlefinger said. "What have I told you about the events prior to his arrest?"

"Only that you offered to buy the Gold Cloaks to him, but he wouldn't accept because it wasn't honorable," she said.

"What has your little bird told you about the event leading up to the throne room scrap?" Baelish asked.

"That isn't the point," Sansa said.

Littlefinger seemed to smile, although Sansa wasn't sure if he actually had. Although she could have sworn it was a smile of satisfaction. He put his hands on either side of him, gripping the corner of the table lightly.

"Your father spoke to Janos Slynt, the commander of the City Watch and explained to him the situation," he explained, his voice contrite as he spoke, as if it were a hard thing to talk about. "He didn't like my idea of buying their loyalty, however, he needed the two thousand swords of the Watch. Your father thought that Janos Slynt's sense of honor would eagerly agree to help him. Proud, naïve fool. Such a man as Slynt had only as much honor as there was gold to be had from it.

"Janos agreed to help him and even affirmed his loyalty when Ned Stark was summoned to speak with Joffrey after Robert had died of his wounds. I went with them into the throne room, for I wished to see which way the winds would blow. At first the City Watch seemed to rally behind Eddard Stark, but at the last second, turned on his men. Several of his men were killed before they realized Stark had been betrayed."

"Why?" Sansa asked, interrupting his story. "Why would they agree to help if they weren't going to?"

"I later learned that after he talked to Eddard he spoke with someone on the Small Council and pledged to thwart the coup, but only if a price was met," Littlefinger explained, "Money speaks greater volumes to men like Slynt than words and oaths do. I realized only too late that the Gold Cloaks must have been bought off and I knew that Eddard Stark would be killed if I didn't intervene."

"You are saying you betrayed my father so he wouldn't be killed?" Sansa asked, the idea highly suspect. "You pushed my aunt out of the Moon Door with no qualms."

"Aye, I did," he agreed. "And why did I push your disturbed aunt out of that door?"

"Because she was attacking me," Sansa answered.

It was still very clear in her mind's eye. The crazed look in Aunt Lysa'e eyes. The strength of her grip as he threatened her with a death most painful. And Littlefinger arriving, looking like an emissary of death to all who opposed him. It was this emissary who had saved her.

"Yes!" Littlefinger said, standing up and walking towards her. "All I have ever done is for two purposes. One, what will get me the Iron Throne. And two, what will keep the woman I love safe and one day place them by my side. I loved you mother with all my heart, she was my first love. Even when I met her in King's Landing after years of marriage, all I could see was the woman whom my heart had been for all my life."

"But my father died!" she argued, feeling a strange emotion as he came closer to her. "How did that get her by your side."

"I swear by all the Gods old and new that his death _never_ crossed my mind," he said, a rare anger flashing through him. "I never thought that the son of Robert Baratheon would be so cruel. I told you once, there was no long-term advantage to be had allowing that cruel selfish child stay on the throne for long. I loved your mother far too much to have ever caused her that much hurt I saw when I brought your father's bones to her."

His hand gently grabbed her by the cheek and the other placed itself on her waist. She seemed frozen by the power of his charisma and the words he spoke. She seemed to lose sense of where she was, lost in her power of his gaze and the intensity of the emotions he had for her.

"I would do anything for you," he said, "I have done nothing except for what I felt was best for you. Your mother was a beautiful woman, but you far surpass her in every aspect. One day, we will sit together on the Iron Throne. That is why I have never lied to you and have born your scorn with dignity and grace. Because I truly only love you."

Before she knew what was happening, he placed his lips on her. At first she did not respond but soon enough, she found herself returning it. This was….everything she had imagined when it came to love. What it was like to be truly desired. She had learned Ser Loras sought only the company of men, Joffrey cared for nothing that wasn't controllable and Tyrion...She had nothing bad to say about Tyrion. Except that he was a Lannister and it was against his wishes they had been married.

"No!" she gasped, pulling back from him. "I….I am sorry, Lord Baelish. But no. I can't."

"Of course you can," he urged her, "You can do anything. You are the Lady of Winterfell. Not a bastard born of the south or a crippled lordling who can't even climb stairs on his own. No, you are the face of strength of the true Stark line. Give into to your emotions, Sansa. They will guide you.":

There it is again. Did Littlefinger know about the truth of Jon?

"That's why I can't," she shook her head. She stepped towards the door, suddenly unsure of what was happening. "Not now at least. I need….I need time to think about everything. I need you to leave Winterfell. Until I have everything sorted in my own mind."

"Sansa…." Petyr Baelish begged.

"If you care for me at all," she said, her own voice a mixture of determination and begging, "Then yoou must do this. Not for your own sake. But mine. I need time."

Littlefinger stood there, staring at her sadly. He nodded his head once, and grabbing her hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it once.

"I will leave," he said. "I will do this for you. But, I will remain close by, so whenever you need me, I will be there for you. My love."

Sansa turned and walked out of the room. Once she was in the hallway outside and the door was closed, she all but ran to her chambers. She said nothing, not even to Jon who she ran into. No, she kept a good brisk pace until she got to her chambers and hurried inside, locking the door behind her.

There, in the safety of her own chambers, she slid to the floor, trembling form head to foot. So much had happened in the last few hours that she couldn't even trust her own emotions. The vision she had been given by the tree, Bran's revelation, Littlefinger's explanation for what happened in the throne room.

Why did she feel so conflicted then? She should have been raging against Petyr's betrayal of her family. However, she also knew his emotions and intentions towards her and her family. Then why couldn't she trust her own feelings then towards Petyr.

 _Littlefinger_ , a voice inside her head said in her own voice. _He is a master at getting what he wants. He wants you, don't you realize that? He will use everything in his arsenal to turn you to his side._

"I know," she said aloud, "Yet….how do I guard against my own heart? He's been the only one who has come to my rescue time and again. He has never lied to me. For all I know, Bran misunderstood what was going on. He can't even remember that a bastard name for a child born in Dorne is Sand but thinks it's Blackfyre."

 _Or perhaps Bran had the right of it and it's Littlefinger that is taking the events out of context._

"There are too many things we have gone though for me just to disbelieve him," she said, standing up and walking towards the window. Snow had started to fall, she saw. Putting a hand on the window sill, she looked over the snowy landscape of Winterfell and tried to understand everything that had happened.

 _You will never find true love with Littlefinger. He only wants power and you are a Stark. The blood of kings runs through your veins. That's what he wants._

"Do you think I not know that?" Sansa demanded, "By the Gods, why am I arguing with myself?"

 _I'm just your voice of reason. I'm the skeptical side of you. The one who knows right from wrong._

"What reason is there for anything that's happened to my family?" she asked bitterly and continued to watch the snow fall.


	47. Epi 8, Ch 3: Sam

***Sam***

"Have you heard, Sam?" Manual asked, taking a seat besides Sam. They were taking thei noon-meal break, a bowl of soup that reminded Sam too much of the liquidy shit and piss pots he had to dump on a daily basis.

"Heard what?" Sam asked.

"They are going to be moving five of us to Superior Acolyte position tomorrow," the Dornishman said, breaking the heel of a loaf of bread and dipping it in the soup. "Whom do you think will be named it?"

"That's a rumor," Sam replied. "Superior Acolytes don't get chosen until after the new group has been here a full year."

"Supposedly a bunch of maesters were killed during the Battle of Princes Pass and the invasion of Massey's Hook and they need to advance the training by a lot," Manual explained as he chewed on the bread.

Sam could understand that. Wars were terrible affairs, and he had seen his own fair share of combat that he well understood that the confusion of battle wouldn't have stayed the wide swing or wayward arrow from finding it's mark.

But still, a Superior Acolyte? When acolytes hit Superior Acolytes in their training, they were given far freer access to the Citadel. They could sit in on meetings of the Archmaesters, but not participate. They were even allowed access to the restricted section. Although they were not allowed to remove the books from there.

Sam really hoped that if this was indeed the case, he'd be chosen. Most of the Archmaesters had only good things to say about his performance here at the Citadel. The little that was negative was his obsession with discovering information about the Long Night and White Walkers.

No one truly believed his tales about beyond the Wall or what he had seen. The few that said they did, he could hear snickering behind his back. He was perhaps the only person in the entire Citadel that was taking this threat seriously, as the flash and bang of the War of Queens, as they were calling the conflicts between Queens Cersei Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen.

"I hope they chose me," Manual said, dipping another chunk of bread into his bowl. "I am the best when it comes to cutting into dead bodies. What are they called again?"

"Cadavers," Sam provided. "Honestly, you claim to be the best of us at working on them, and yet you can't even remember the bloody name!"

"I think such minutiae is trivial at best," the Dornishman said, his mouth full of soggy bread. "What really matters is your ability to _do."_

"I won't argue that," Sam said, "When I was up North, few could tell you the difference between a black squirrel and a tree squirrel, but when you have two hundred men being cut down by White Walkers, you don't tend to think on such things."

"Gods dammit!" another acolyte, a bald Iron Born lad by the name of Gempy exclaimed. "Will you shut your damned mouth about White Walkers? There are no such things!"

Sam felt himself redden at that. "Oh, and I suppose your krakens are more real than something that cut down over two hundred men and chopped the heads off every horse?" he shot back.

"Krakens have viable reports over the last two hundred years," Gempy turned his full attention on Sam. "Captains and sailors from the Rock, White Harbor, King's Landing and Dorne have all reported them at one time or another. What reports have we of the damned Others? Kings? Nay, not them. Lords? Nay, not them either. Only fat Night's Watchmen who are too fat to be any use so they send him down here."

"There have been reports," Sam replied, trying to keep a level head. "There were reports as early as five years back about them. Deserters from the Night's Watch told Eddard Stark that his entire patrol had been ambushed by them."

"Deserters," Gempy spat. "Not a reliable source of information. What ever happened to this deserter, pray tell?"

"His head was removed by Ned Stark."

"Really?" Gempy sneered. "How do you know this?"

"Jon Snow was there and told me about it after the fact," Sam shot back. "Oh, as for your statement that Kings have given no reports on it? Stannis knew full well about them and deployed his entire mercenary force to the Wall because he knew time needed to be bought."

"Stannis didn't stay at the Wall," the Iron Born pointed out, waving his hand. "No, he went and got himself killed at Winterfell. Which is where? Oh yeah, _south_ of the Wall."

"Jon Snow is now King himself. He is mobilizing the entire North to combat the White Walkers and the Army of the Dead…."

"Another deserter who has somehow conned the entire North into breaking from the Realm and forming all its forces," Gempy cut him off. "Let's examine what we know. A deserter claims to see the White Walkers. A small ranging party goes north of the Wall and the entire group is supposedly massacred except for a few survivors. A contender for the Iron Throne deploys his army to the Wall. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch deserts his post, wins a battle, becomes King and first thing he does is mobilize all the men of the North. Also a Night's Watchman is sent to the Citadel with the express purpose of discovering how best to fight them.

"Granted, as the Iron Born have been known to say, _When three Sailors see the same fog, steer away as quick as possible._ I grant you, there is much to be had. But let me counterpoint everything you've said.

"A deserter is caught by Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell. He claims to see White Walkers, maybe he does, but more likely, he is trying to save his own life because deserting the Watch is a death sentence. Then shortly after, a ranging party of several hundred strong goes beyond the Wall. Only a few return, and survivors claim they were ambushed by White Walkers and the Army of the Dead. More then likely, they were attacked by the hundred thousand man army that later attacked the Wall. As our fine Sam the Slayer here says, there was a massive snow storm, so it would be easy for men's minds to play tricks on them

"Stannis goes to the Wall with his army. The idea of his redeploying there to fend of the dead would have value. Except the first thing he does is march south to attack Winterfell, where the Boltons, the Wardens of the North loyal to King's Landing resided. Why, if there is an army of the Dead marching on the Wall, did Stannis abandon it to fight a war that is far less important if it's the truth?

"Jon Snow is made King after winning the Battle of the Bastards. Very first thing he does is mobilize every man in the North to his army. Perhaps it is to defend the North. Or, perhaps, he plans to take advantage of the disarray of the South to expand his own personal fiefdom.

"And lastly we have you. Sam the Slayer. You claim you got separated from the ranging party and you killed a White Walker in the company of the woman you brought with you. Are you sure you really killed him? The only person who could claim to have seen it was the woman you're fucking, and she'd say anything to have you inside her, I'm sure. So as we can see, these _evidences_ are not nearly so conclusive afterall."

Sam listened to each point being made, keeping his temper in check. He would win no friends by losing his temper. Indeed, he meant friends. Sam could see that their argument was beginning to draw attention, not only of acolytes, but there was also two maesters that had been waling but stopped to hear their argument. If he could win even _one_ person to his side, it would be a victory.

Win over a maester, he'd be able to get those forbidden works. He needed to argue his best. Make his best argument.

"Aye," Sam said, "You make good points. There is one question you have failed to ask though. What if even one of these tales is true? What about the Wildlings north of the Wall? Where are they now? Every survivor is south of the Wall. When I say survivors, I'm talking about the few who escaped. Escaped what? What would kill an army of over a hundred thousand when the Night's Watch barely killed a thousand during the assault on the Wall? Why would these rapers and murders be allowed south?"

He paused, letting the question sink in. "What if there was something far darker coming South? What if the thousands of men from Stannis fleet that saw the events at Hardhome are true in their report of the Army of the Dead swarming that Wildling camp? What if every single living person is needed to fight.

"You say Jon Snow has mobilized every man. That is only partly true. He has also organized every man, woman and child and elder who can possibly arm themselves. When I say, he's mobilized the entire North, so not for one second think that it's anything less than every living, breathing person taking up weapons. What good would such an army have in the south, with women and children in his ranks?"

"Let's be more personal though. No one is here that can tell you those stories," Sam continued. "Except me. What if I am telling the truth and I did indeed see hundreds of my brothers killed by dead men? What if I did indeed kill a White Walkers with a dagger made of dragonglass? If there is even a one percent chance that this is possible, then every second we delay is another second that we come closer to destruction."

"Yes, yes," Gempy shook his head. "But the real question is, who would benefit from us turning our sole attention on the North? Would you have us abandon the people of the south to play war with a Night's Watch deserter, a bastard who calls himself King? There is an actual _war_ going on down here with dragons."

"You have never seen war, so what the fuck do you have any idea what it's like?" Sam retorted. "I was at the Battle of Castle Black and the Massacre of the Fist of the First Men. I saw very good friends die. I held the head of one of my best friends in my lap, lying to him that it was going to be alright as he gagged on a wildling arrow that was causing him to bled all over my lap. An arrow shot from a wildling who was so fucking afraid of the White Walkers she'd rather die trying to get over the Wall than face them. Some of us have actually warred and we know the true danger because of it. So before you speak of what you know not, next time, use your brains. It's not like you have hair to dilute your thinking."

Gempy's face turned red as Sam scored a hit. Sam could see the other man trying to work up a response. Everyone else seemed rather put off by what they had heard and sat uneasily. A few looked at Sam with more respect while others muttered to themselves.

"Alright!" one of the maesters said, calling to the group. "As good a discussion as this has been, you all have your duties to return to. So hurry up and finish then return to them."

Sam looked down at the soup and put a finger in it. It was cold, and disgustedly, he dropped it onto the bench next to him. He had no appetite anymore, not after the moronic statements of such imbeciles as Gempy. He really needed to become a Superior Acolyte, because he was certain that he hadn't won any friends.

* * *

"I hear you two had a bit of a verbal scuffle in the mess hall," Archmaester Ebrose said as he leaned back in simple chair behind his desk.

"That was yesterday, Archmaester," Sam commented to which the Iron Born agreed with a nod.

"Never mind when it happened," Ebrose said, rubbing the side of his face as he spoke. "You both mad quite an impression on Maesters Janos and Cele. They say you both have potential to be great orators and that when you one day become maesters yourselves, you will be more than capable of arguing your assigned lords out of any foolish nonsense they may be thinking of."

Sam wasn't sure if this was necessarily a compliment. Sure, it had been gilded nicely, but he had seen enough times when his father Randyll had started off conversations with his mother this way, that usually it was followed by criticism.

"You both know that we are choosing a group of Superior Acolytes," Ebrose informed them, "We are choosing five acolytes to be pushed forward. Normally, we wouldn't be hurrying training of anyone, but the petty bickerings of two women have already cost the world the knowledge of several fine maesters."

"Did you know any of them personally?" Gempy asked.

"Maester Gilathon was a fine man," Ebrose nodded. "I was sad to hear of his demise at the hands of the Dothraki. His last scroll detailed he was dying but the Dothraki had left him to bleed out. Barbarians, not even giving him a swift death."

Ebrose seemed to draw into himself, and for a few moments he was lost in thought. Sam was suddenly struck that Ebrose might now every maester personally and every acolyte who had ever passed through these walls. He was old enough he must have known Maester Aemon back when he was a young man. Back when the Targaryerns still ruled Westeros.

At long last Ebrose seemed to come to himself and remember that there were others in the room with him. He shook off the thoughts that seemed to darken his mood and turned his attention fully to the two men standing before him.

He cleared his throat. "We have already chosen the other Superior Acolytes, so we only have one choice to make and that's between you two," Ebrose explained to them. "That final decision is up to me. And I wanted you both to know, that you have both made quite an impression, even if you are not chosen."

Sam couldn't believe this! He was going to become a Superior Acolyte! This was good news, he'd be able to do what he had come here to do at long last! He'd be able to grab those two books he had seen that by his own stupidity he had lost his chance to take these books with him. But now he'd be able to….

"Congratulations, Gempy Hammerhorn," Ebrose said, reaching his hand across the table. "You will meet with Archmaester Lyla in the morning and he will begin your advanced training."

"I am honored to be chosen," Gempy said, grabbing the Archmaester's hand in a firm grip. A smile was spread all over his face. "I will not let you down."

"I am sure," Ebrose said, then waved to them both dismissively. "Now, if you would be so kind, I do have other work to be doing."

Sam stood there, rooted to the spot. What? How had Gempy, one of the most fumbling members of the acolytes, gotten a position as a Superior Acolyte while Samwell Tarly, one of the most astute and capable of the acolytes, was being passed over? He could feel the Iron Born's smirk as he turned and almost skipped out of the office, being as happy as a dog with two cocks.

Sam did not move himself though. He folded his arms across his chest and stayed put. Ebrose tried to ignore him, bending over to begin working on a scroll. Yet as he started writing and finding that Sam was not leaving him alone, he sighed.

"You're still here, Tarly?" he asked, not looking up as he wrote.

"Yes, Archmaester," Sam said. "I don't understand."

"That is why you are working to become a maester!" Ebrose said waving his feather quill in the air. "That way you can understand."

"How did Gempy get to be a Superior Acolyte while I didn't?" Sam asked, "I'm ten times the acolyte he is."

"Jealousy doesn't suit you," Ebrose reprimanded him without glancing up as he dipped the quill in the inkwell. "Nor does being a braggart. Gempy is a fine acolyte…."

"That is bull-shit and you know it," Sam snapped.

He hadn't realized what he said until Ebrose looked up, his kindly face transformed with a scowl. Sam cursed himself for the slip of the tongue. Not all the habits he had picked up from the Night's Watch was all that admirable.

"Begging your pardon," Sam muttered. "But you must realize that I am by far the much better choice. Gempy is a novice, not only in rank but skill. I had years of service to Maester Aemon. I know my stuff a lot better than he does. I _am_ the better choice."

"Are you?" Ebrose asked, putting the quill in the inkwell and leaning back in his chair. "Are you really the best choice?"

Sam frowned. He wasn't sure what Ebrose was getting at. He had done every he had ever been asked with surpassing skills. He learned new things every day and he applied them. How was he not the best choice?

"The difference between you and Hammerhorn is quite simple, Tarly," Ebrose said. "Hammerhorn understand the importance of this Order. He truly wants to be a maester and serve the greater good in all aspects of its service. You, on the other hand, did not come to us of your own volition. Aye, perhaps you _wanted_ to be a maester, but you were ordered here. Nor do you ever ask questions about anything about the Others. You aren't here to truly become one of us, but to feed your addiction and obsession with the Long Night and the Others."

"So," Sam said, understanding dawning on him. "That's it isn't it then. The reason you chose Gempy is because he stood up to me and argued against what I have been warning everyone about. You are so afraid that I might happen to be right, that you are willing to put someone of far less competency before me, just so you can hold me back from what I have been assigned to do."

"There is also the topic of your devotion to the vows you would take as a maester," the Archmaester said, refusing to engage Sam on this front.

Sam arched an eyebrow. "I really don't…."

"Most of these men understand that they are not allowed to have women as maesters and as such, deprive themselves of woman's company while here so they can become use to it," the old man said, scratching his chin beneath his beard. "You on the other hand, have not only _not_ avoided women, you brought one with you and her child! How many times have you slept with her in an intimate fashion since you got here?"

Sam felt the heat rising in his cheeks. "That is none of your concern," he retorted, unable to keep his tone civilized as he said it.

"You can't even give up a woman because of what, love?" Ebrose shook his head. "Sam, the reason we don't have wives or lovers is because we are all about having love for the _entire_ Realm. If we had wives, lovers or children, we would have more love for a single person, diminishing our ability to serve without preference over whom we tend to."

"I find she gives me far more ability to love those around me," Sam said, trying hard not to grind his teeth as he spoke. "She in no way diminishes me."

"If you had to choose between your woman and a knight of the Realm of the same illness and they both would die at the same time, and you could only save one, which would you choose?" Ebrose asked. "You might nobly say, 'I'd save the knight' or 'the one who has more importance'. You might even firmly believe it. Yet when it comes to the real situation, you'll be blinded by your emotions and feeling for this woman."

Sam did not want to agree with Ebrose. Yet, he knew that he would save Gilly even if it meant someone else might die. She was everything to Sam, and the very idea that he may one day have to choose between her and a stranger was torturous indeed.

"I am not unsympathetic," Ebrose told him, and Sam could tell that he meant it. "But you must give up one of these things. You must either give up your obsession or you must give up your woman. Once you give up either of these, we will revisit the topic of Superior Acolyte. But not beforehand. Now, I do believe you know how to show yourself out. I suggest you take it."

Sam wanted to argue the unfairness of it all. But Ebrose sent him a sharp look, almost as if daring him to question him further. Sam closed his eyes, took a deep, calming breath. Slowly he opened his eyes, and inclined his head. Turning around, he walked out of the room, closing the door after him.

* * *

It was late at night when he finally returned to their apartment. Gilly was already asleep when he showed up, Little Sam asleep in his own little bed. The words that Ebrose had told him had weighed heavily on his mind, and as he watched her breasts rise and fall with every single breath in her sleep, and the way the moonlight seemed to catch her face, he couldn't help but feel a harsh stab of pain in his heart.

What a miserable choice had been placed before him. How could Archmaester Ebrose have laid such an impossible choice upon him?

He quickly and quietly undressed and slid into bed. How was he to choose between the woman he loved, and the command Jon Snow had given him? Jon trusted him, but there was honestly only one way he could think to get what he needed.

As his weight settled in the bed, Gilly stirred and muttered in her sleep. "Sam?" she asked, her eyes opening but she as still asleep. "Is that you?"

"Yes," he said, to her, reaching over and touching her cheek. "Go back to sleep."

She nodded he head and scooted over to him and grabbing his arm, draped it over her and pulled him close to her. "I love you, Sam," she said quietly as she once again fully drifted into sleep.

Tears fell from Sam's eyes.


	48. Epi 8, Ch 4: Dickon Tarly

***Dickon Tarly***

It was late in the afternoon when the army began to cross the Mander River, a few leagues north of Highgarden. Dickon sat on his chestnut charger _Aegon_ and watched the long lines of soldiers as they marched across the bridge, the pounding of thousands of feet coming up and down the road. He was on the north side of the bridge, his father somewhere close by, riding up and down the marching column to ensure that the ranks were closed.

It had been roughly a week since the Battle of the Princes Pass and they had made good time marching from the Red Mountains to Highgarden and up to the Mander. He had asked his father why they were marching this way, when it would have been easier and much faster to go north and swing around the end of the Cockleswent which ended about a days march east of Ashford.

"Because," Randyll Tarly had said, "Ser Jaime has said that we need to ensure people realize that we are still around to keep the peace. I agree with that philosophy. Many people loved the Tyrell's and I am sure do not love what we did to them."

Dickon understood that reason. He had also loved the Tyrell's. He had known Garlan very well, Garlan was the one whom he had squired for, until he had become a knight in his own right. So, he could understand if there were any hard feelings involving that unpleasant affair.

As he watched the men marching, his mind began to drift to other places. His mind ventured over the combat he had experienced, his older brother Samwell. He stopped as he thought about Sam. He had never minded Sam not being martially inclined. It had ensured his favor with their father, after-all. He had loved the stories Sam would tell him though. He loved the stories of the Targaryens, such as Aegon the Dragonknight. He had named his beautiful charger after that ancient tale.

He had never agreed with the treatment Sam had received at their father's hand, and he hoped that Sam did not take complacency on his part as approval of it. He had been a child, unable to stand up to his father.

Yet now, Sam was a much more confident person. Dickon had been surprised by just how much iron had been in Sam's voice when he had told him about their father's threat. It was nice to see Sam sticking up for himself. He had secretly applauded Sam's audacity for stealing Heartsbane. It had been a major, "Go bugger yourself" towards their father.

How much of his change had come from Gilly, that woman Sam had fathered that child with? No, he corrected himself. Gilly had told him the real story when he had gone to Old Town to deliver Randyll's ultimatum. Did he believe the rubbish about White Walkers? Not in the slightest. But he could believe most of what Gilly had told him. About the Battle at Castle Black. He had heard of reports of that battle from a Brother of the Night's Watch that had come to Horn Hill looking for recruits after that battle.

He had spoken praise for Sam's bravery in battle in holding the southern gate and rallying those who were afraid. Randyll had laughed in the man's face, but Dickon had been secretly proud of his brother.

Honestly, when he became Lord of Horn Hill, he would welcome Gilly as a sister-by-law and allow Sam to return. Once his father died of course. And he swore that Randyll Tarly wouldn't pass before the cockroaches did by sheer willpower.

Even as he thought about that, his own mind changed to his own betrothed. He had met Eleanor Mooton at a tourney in King's Landing a few years prior. Dickon wanted to say it was during the Tourney of the Hand, shortly before Robert Baratheon's death and before Eddard Stark tried to steal the throne from Joffrey Baratheon. Her father was Lord William Mooton, Lord of Maidenpool.

She was not a very tall lady, but Eleanor had a comely form. Golden hair that waved and a face that was oval in shape. She had a very queer laugh, which she did often. He had accidentally gotten lost after a melee and stumbled into Lord Mooton's tent, because their banners were similar. Lord Mooton had been courteous and had sent his daughter Eleanor to escort him back. They had struck up a conversation, and by the end, the word Dickon meant more than just a name that people always gave him shit over.

He loved Eleanor, and she loved him. Dickon hoped that Eleanor would do the same thing Gilly had done for Sam. Make him a better man. Randyll had approved the match, but even if he hadn't, it wouldn't have stopped Dickon. This was one thing he did _not_ feel his father should have any say over.

"How fare you?" a voice called to him and he looked to see Lord Titus Peake riding up to him. His soldiers marched past with their sigils of three black castles on an orange field.

"I am well, Lord Peake," he replied. "And you?"

"A little chilled, if I do say so myself," Peake said, patting his black mare's neck. "I saw you at the Princes Pass. You fought well and led better. Your father must be proud."

"I assume so," Dickon shrugged his shoulders. "My father has not spoken to me about the battle. Nor was he even there to watch me. No, he was with Lord Jaime."

Peake shrugged. "You know your father," he said. "Always rubbing shoulders with the people he considers to be the true power. That's what nearly got him in trouble during Robert's Rebellion. He was sucking so hard on the teat of the Dragon his lips were nearly rubbed raw."

Dickon shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. He didn't like admitting thhe fact that the only reason that his father had not been executed was the fact that Robert had been too wounded after the Trident that he couldn't pass sentence. No, it had been Tywin Lannister that had given the pardons and Tywin had not let anyone forget his leniency toward them.

Yet that wasn't a completely accurate assessment of his father either. Randyll did not "rub shoulders' with anyone. He was loyal to the current power, and that was about it. Yet he knew better than to contradict his elders.

"Perhaps," he said as a compromise.

"Give your father my salutations when you next see him," Lord Peake said, turning and heading back off to the column.

It wasn't until about an hour later before Randyll rode back to the bridge on his grey horse. He inclined his head to Dickon. He did not wear his armor, but instead just wore a thick leather jerkin, and a cape of green behind him.

"How are the troops holding up here?" he asked his son.

"They keep marching with a good pace," he replied.

"Good," Randyll said.

"Lord Peake wished me to give you his salutations," Dickon said.

"He's a cunt," Randyll snorted. "I haven't had much use for his fake interpretations of events or of myself. He probably talked about me rubbing my lips raw on Targaryen tits again."

"Teats," Dickon corrected, "And yes, he did."

Randyll rolled his eyes. "At the very least he is loyal to us now, as we are the Wardens of the Reach," he said. "Camp is being set up in a couple of hours. I want to reach Bitterbridge by the end of the week."

"Of course," Dickon said and Randyll nodded his head.

* * *

The march from the crossing of the Mander to Bitterbridge was kept at a very good pace. Dickon was relatively surprised with the good timing the men kept. They had marched clear to the mouth of the Princes Pass, fought a pitched battle, marched clear back to Highgarden and crossed the river in only a few weeks time. Yet the men kept high spirits.

They were helped in several regards. The winter rains had not really taken a toll on the land yet. The Reach was not subject to snow, except in the worst of winters. Yet they were subject to daily rains. Suicides went up during this time, and Dickon prayed for the souls of suicide victims. It was known that the Father and Mother did not look kindly upon those mortals who took their own lives. It was almost as foul a crime as rape, murder and the breaking of guest rights.

The men were also in high spirits. Dorne had always boasted of their superiority in martial skills over the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. "A single Dornishman is worth ten Lannisters and twenty of Highgarden" they had always claimed. The claim had been proven once and for all inaccurate and this gave the men an extra spring in their step.

The other thing was that Randyll Tarly was an iron disciplinarian. He did not take with dawdlers and stragglers. The sounds of whips could be heard at any given moment as foot sore soldiers, and those who had dropped off the side of the road were beaten back into the marching column with many the stinging lash of the whip.

On the sixth day, it rained a torrential downpour for about three hours. Dickon had been soaked through by the time they made camp for the night and the wood was too sodden to catch a spark. So, he had been forced to strip naked and lay his clothes outside the pavilion. He shared his father's pavilion as his father seemed in this regard to jealously keep his son close.

His father wouldn't arrive at least and hour, so, he had been able to contemplate what Eleanor would look like naked, what sex would be like with her, and even what sex would be like. Dickon had never actually had sex, so he wasn't quite sure what all the fuss about it was. However, he did know how to pleasure himself, and before his father had returned, he had been able to pleasure himself quiet extensively.

The tent flap opened, and Dickon looked over from the cot he laid on. He was glad his father hadn't shown up before he could clean himself up of his….well…..that wasn't important, now was it?

"You're still awake?" Randyll asked, wiping excess water off his head and onto the floor.

"Yes," his son replied. "It's a little too chilly. I've been waiting to warm up a bit before sleeping."

"Please tell me you aren't naked under those blankets?" Randyll asked, annoyance in hhis face at the very idea.

"Well, yeah," Dickon said. "My clothes are all soaked through and my other pair got soaked through as well. Didn't you see them out there on the ground where they can be dried?"

Randyll looked down at his son, his eyes speaking volumes of how much he thought of that excuse. He finally sighed, shook his head and began to unbutton his own tunic. Dickon once again saw the scars that covered his father's body. There was a good six. Three were from sword strokes that had landed on his father, two were from arrows and another was from a dagger. One of the sword wounds had gone from about his ribcage down to his knee.

"As long as you weren't fooling around with yourself I don't care," Randyll muttered, tossing his tunic to the side and sitting down on the bed. "Your mother had told me she's been hearing both you and your sister doing just that. Let me just say, your brother might have not done a lot right when he was home, but he didn't defile himself like that."

 _Shit._ Dickon had been so sure he had been so quiet that no one could hear. His sister though? _I didn't realize Talla even knew_ how _too._

"Mother must be mistaken," Dickon declared, "I haven't done anything like that."

"Hmmm," Randyll harrumphed and scratched his chin. It was clear that neither man wanted to engage in that particular topic. So, thankfully, Randyll changed it.

"We should reach Bitterbridge by the seventh hour tomorrow," he told Dickon. "I want us to be the first across. We're going to have to move tens of thousands of men right next to the city itself. Many men will want to sneak off a grab a quick moment with the city's brothels, but I don't want that to happen. Ser Jaime should already have reached the KIngswood by now, and I don't want us falling too behind schedule."

"I'll see to it," Dickon promised.

Randyll nodded. "Good."

* * *

The crossing near Bitterbridge went pretty smoothly. Smoke rose from a fire far to the east but Dickon took no notice of it. It was common practice for many farmers in the Reach to burn their fields at the start of winter. It was a way, or so they claimed, that the rains and ash could combine into a type of compost that would allow for better growth during the Winter years. Although Dickon had spoken to other, such as farmers from the Crownlands who had laughed at such nonsense.

They wouldn't be leaving the boundaries of the Reach for another five days, and only then once they were within a day's march of the Kingswood. Randyll had been joined by the youngest son of Lord Appleton, a knight of about sixteen years of age. The boy looked like he was drowning in the armor he wore, and the shield of quartered frame, two apple trees, one on the top left and bottom right corner and two castles, one of the bottom left and on the top right, seemed almost as big as the lad was. Together they ensured that any men with the itch of the crotch wouldn't be sneaking off to scratch that itch using a whores hands.

About two hours into the crossing, Dickon got tired of sitting there. Turning, he began to ride off.

"Where are you going?" young Appleton called out. "Lord Tarly told us to stay right here!"

"I'll be back," Dickon called behind him. "I'm tired of sitting around."

He rode down the side of the rode, many of the foot men grumbling about 'Lordlings who are too good to walk'. Let them talk. One advantage to having advantages in life was being able to thumb it in the nose of those who didn't.

The longer he rode, the further he left the river and the closer he came to the smoldering clouds of ash from the fires. The smoke stretched for a massive distance, and the closer he rode, the more he began to realize that there was far too much smoke to be farmers burning their fields.

The head of the army hadn't yet reached where the fires had been, but as he approached, he saw several of the commanders of the army. Lords and knights were gathered around the beginning, which as he got closer, he began to see things he had never even imagined.

Corpses were burned and strewn on the ground, the grass around them a dark outline as the grass closest to them had also lit up. For a great distance on either side of the Roseroad, Dickon could see the grass was burned. Trees that had been great and full of life now were splintered and blackened.

Horses had fallen, their skin turned to ash and fallen between blackened bone. As he approached, he wended his way through the group, many of whom were talking in concerned tones. He exited the group, and what he saw caused his eyes to widen, and his mouth dropped in shock.

A wagon stood, burned to the axel. IT had collapsed on itself, only parts of the wheels still standing. Part of the wagon's sides had fallen to the ground, and a shape melted to it. Only to realize to his horror that it was a man who had been melted into the boards.

"What in the name of the Stranger happened here?" he whispered.

"I thought I told you to stay back at the crossing!" Randyll's voice bellowed. Dickon looked to see where his father was but even as Dickon looked, he could see that this wasn't just one wagon. He could see many others in various states of ruin. The smoke grew thicker and beyond the twelfth wagon, he could see nothing but a sickly brown and grey haze.

Several of the wagons looked like they had tried to flee, pulling off the road and aimed in various directions. One wagon had remained mostely intact, but both horses were on the ground, their bodies burned and the drivers were nearby, one's hand sticking in the air as if trying to reach for help.

Like specters his father emerged from the smoke, covered in soot. Behind him rode Lord Peake and young Alekyne Florent. They all looked as if they had rolled in the ash.

"I got tired of waiting," he replied honestly. "What happened here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Alekyne demanded. He looked furious, rage turning his face red, so violently he could see it between the ash that clung to his skin. "Dragons burned these wagons to the ground!"

"How many wagons are there?" Dickon asked.

"We rode past about three hundred and there was still many, many more we didn't even get to," Radnyll said. His voice was cold and Dickon could see his father gripping the riens of the horse's bridle so hard that the leather of the glove was pulled taut. "This was the last wagon train we sent to King's Landing. My guess is that this is the entire harvest we took from the Reach. All one thousand wagons have been burned and only in the last few days. But the amount of destruction…." He trailed off, at a loss for words. "IN her wrath, Daenerys Targaryen has robbed the Realm of an entire harvest."

Dickon felt sick at the very thought and nearly reeled in his saddle at the blow. People depended on this food! It's loss wasn't just something that could be replaced. The Reach, Crownlands and Stormlands all lost a third of their production capabilities during the winter. That meant that King's Landing, who relied upon this food, would starve. Almost a million-people lived there and what would they do for food!

"This is why if we have a chance, we kill Daenerys Targaryen," Randyll Tarly said to all the knights and lords who had gathered to see this destruction. "She burns prisoners without remorse. She kills nobles just because they are of high birth. Now she takes our food from us! This _Mother of Dragons_ , she needs to die."

Dickon could not help but agree with the sentiment. But, how were they supposed to combat dragons who could do this amount of destruction?


	49. Epi 8, Ch 5: Jon

***Jon***

Ser Davos stood tall, back staright and hands behind his back. He had just barely arrived back in Winterfell, bearing gifts of a ship loaded down with dragonglass. It did nothing to assuage Jon. Like that was going to save him from the anger Jon felt.

"You went to Dragonstone against my express wishes," Jon said, sitting in the chair behind the long table. "I very specifically said we were _not_ going to see Daenerys Targaryen. Yet you betrayed my wishes."

"Your wishes were short-sighted," Davos argued.

"Short-sighted?" Jon asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Aye." Davos nodded his head. "They were."

"Please elaborate, my Lord," Jon commanded, leaning back in his chair. Let's see what magical reason Davos had for believing that.

Davos cleared his throat. "We needed Daenerys' army but more specifically her dragons," the Hand explained. "You did not want to even try. Now, I understand your reasons why. There is bad blood between House Stark and House Targaryen. Yet a refusal to put aside pride will only hurt us when the Long Night fully comes again. We needed her, and that is my duty as Hand of the King."

"What duty is that?" Jon asked.

"That when you make a decision that is not the best one, I do what I can to rectify that mistake," Davos said.

Honestly, Jon found it rather appealing. Davos did what needed to be done, without taking 'no' for an answer. Yet this was neither the time nor place to be praising such audacity. No, now was the time to be serious.

"So then," Jon said, putting his hands on the table, lightly tapping it with his fingers. "Tell me, when is Daenerys bringing her troops? When is her dragons going to come north? When can I expect her fire to sweep the Army of the Dead away?"

Only now did Davos seem to falter. "Well, it's not so much a question as when as a question of how," he began to ramble, moving his hands in a wildish manner. "There is proper protocol to take into account."

"Davos," Jon said.

"Then we need to also talk about what's the best way she should show up," Davos continued. "You never know what may be seen as a mistake. Or not."

"Davos….."

"I mean, we are talking about a hundred thousand fucking Dothraki that aren't dressed for the cold after all! Then you have the Unsullied, their impressive if I say so myself. How do we get enough ships for them to sail up here. The Iron Born did shatter their fleet…."

"Ser Davos!" Jon snapped, his voice rebounding off the stone walls. "Answer the question. Did you get Daenerys fucking Targaryen to join our fight?"

Davos took a deep breath and seemed to brace himself. "Not as such, no," he admitted.

Just like he thought. For all his good intentions, Davos had failed to do what he had set out to do. Jon had given a command, and Davos had ignored it. And it had all come to naught.

"May I ask why that is?" Jon asked.

"Well," Davos seemed to squirm uncomfortably. "She is under the impression that any independence from the Seven Kingdoms is an act of war against her," he explained. "I tried to explain that wasn't the case, but she wants you to first bend the knee. If you don't bend the knee before she takes King's Landing, she told me she'll come to Winterfell and burn it, and all those in it, to the ground. More namely, you, whom she deems as a usurper."

 _Fuck, I don't have time for this_! The Army of the Dead must have been fully mobilized by now, and it was only time before they actually decided to move against the Wall. He didn't have time to fight a war on two fronts. Yet bend the knee to Daenerys Targaryen? He may as well sign his own death warrant because no one would agree with it.

Even if he was technically part-Targaryen, that didn't change the fact he was Ned Stark's son. The reason that the news of his true parentage didn't bother him nearly, so much was the fact that he knew he didn't have to choose between being a Targaryen or a Stark. He did take the times he had spent with Maester Aemon to be more precious than he had originally held them before.

Eddard Stark had taught him his lesson on morality and gave him the principles that had guided him throughout his life. Not Rhaegar Targaryen.

"Well," he finally said, "It was a worthy goal. But we don't have time for that now. We must continue preparing the North for the next great War and I don't have the time to be fighting you on every decision I make."

"Agreed," Davos nodded his head. "How does our preparations go for the upcoming war?"

"We have already sent three hundred men to the Wall from Hornwood," Jon said, glad for the change of topic. "They have gone to Castle Black. Sentinel Stand has all but been fully repaired by the Bolton men we sent up a couple of months back. Lord Commander Edd has informed me that nearly a dozen porisoners were sent from Dragonstone. So that's a good thing, they were sent to Eastwatch."

"But that still leaves most of the Castles unmanned," Davos said. "What about the rest of them?"

"Come, I will show you what I plan to do," Jon said, standing to his feet.

Jon pulled his chair back with his hand, putting it to the side as he stepped along the back. He stepped around the side of the table and marched forward and past Davos, who turned and fell into step behind him. Jon was indeed glad to be talking about something other than Davos' defy his orders. The last man who publicly defied his commands was Janos Slynt. His end was very bad indeed.

No, there was no time to get into verbal jousts and having contention reigning in his court. Fact was, there was so little time left before the War began, that anything less than true unity on the homefront would be disastrous for the time ahead.

Sansa had been avoiding him for the most part since Bran had revealed the truth of Jon's parentage. He would have liked to talk out what happened with her, that it was still him, despite the difference in fathers. Yet she was taking the news so much harder than either Bran or he, himself was. That wasn't the nicest thing ever to happen, but at least it wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened.

He hadn't quiet made it to the door to leave when a guard stepped in. The man was overly fat, his armor barely able to contain the large gut that rolled out from underneath his breastplate and over his breeches.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," he said. "But there are two men that wish for an audience with you."

"Alright," Jon shrugged his shoulder. "Send them in."

He stopped walking, Davos stepping up to his side. The guard stepped back and after a muffled conversation on the other side of the door in the hallway, in stepped two men.

One was a man who Jon couldn't help but feel had once been a massive oak trunk that had gained sentience. He was built like a barrel, and his neck was so thick that Jon couldn't have even begun to think his fingers could have touched if he wrapped both hands around his neck. A broken nose, a mop of sand-colored hair and a face that was a little wider on the right side than the left.

The other man was a slender man, although he was not skinny. He was well-muscled, his skin tanned by sun and sea. His hair was cropped short, close to the head.

"Your Grace," the two men said, in near unison and went to a knee. "We are honored to meet you."

"Arise," Jon said, and both men did. "Forgive me, but I was off to do something. So take no offense when I must ask, who are you and what do you want?"

"I'm Ser Balon Swann," the tree who had become a man said. His voice was slow and rather dull. "Formerly of the Kingsguard. And this here man by my side is Magen Lannister, formerly the Lord Commander of the Lannister navy."

"Formerly of the Kingsguard?" Davos chortled, "Formerly of the Lannister Navy? What? Were you too poor at your jobs?"

" _Davos_ ," Jon held up a finger and glared at him. Once Davos seemed sufficiently contrite, he turned to the men. "I have heard of you, Ser Balon. Your reputation precedes you. Despite my Hands rather poor way of putting it, the question if fair enough. Why are you both here?"

"Well," Balon began "It is a sad tale…."

"Oh, for the sake of Gods Old and New!" Magen Lannister threw up his hands in despair. "You are putting us all to sleep! Look, Your Grace. We were both very good at our jobs. However, Queen Cersei gave us shit assignments and when the shit assignment went tits up, she blamed us for giving us tasks that were too damned impossible to win in the first place! We have come to you to pledge ourselves tro your service, if you would have us."

Balon Swann glared at his companion for stealing his thunder. But he seemed to agree with the assessment.

Jon was not against taking them on. Gods knew they were going to need every sword for the coming war. Yet he didn't know if they were here because they really were dismissed from the service of Queen Cersei. Or had been sent here to kill him. Both was a very likely possibility.

"And what would you have me do?" Jon asked. "What do you want if I was to place you in my service?"

"I have been in the KIngsguard for longer than I can remember," Balon Swann said. "If you would, I would wish to be part of your Kingsguard."

"Then you will be disappointed," Jon said. "I have no Kingsguard."

"By the Gods when they said the Starks were stupid, I didn't think it was true," Magen said with a shakle of his head. "No offense, Your Grace, but you have many enemies who wish you dead. You would be a fool not to have a Kingsguard. Men sworn to be between you and the blades of those who would do you harm."

"As much as you may be capable, I don't think…." Jon began but he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"A word, Your Grace," Davos said, cutting Jon midsentence.

Jon nodded held up a hand to indicate they were to wait and followed Davos a few paces away. Davos put his own face very close to Jon, almost close enough that Jon could feel his whiskers. Well, maybe not _that_ close, but certainly close.

"What?" Jon asked, his voice low.

"You would do well to consider his offer," Davos said, his voice also low enough that only Jon could hear.

"Why?" Jon asked. "I have no idea if these men are even trustworthy. And besides, I don't need a Kingsguard."

"You would be a fool to think so," Davos said. "A Kingsguard is exactly what you need. If you had actual guards, would the traitors of the Nights Watch dared stab you when there was others who could step in and do likewise to them?"

Jon hesitated in responding. His wounds….they constantly hurt him. There was always a dull ache in his chest from where the blades had entered, a constant reminder of what had happened. Yet it was more than just that. His wounds weren't _healing._ They remained open, and jagged. They weren't oozing blood, but honestly, he didn't know why there wasn't. If he looked hard enough, he could see the severed veins, again, not closing.

Why wasn't blood oozing from these gaping wounds? Was he truly alive? For month he had been unsure, and uncertain after being resurrected. If he could avoid that again, he would like to.

"I don't even know if they weren't sent here by Cersei to kill me," Jon argued.

"You do have a way of pissing of the Queens, that's for certain," Davos grinned. "But in all seriousness, wouldn't it be better to have them closer to where you can keep an eye on them? Better they are close then they are running amok through the countryside."

"Alright," he finally nodded. He turned back to the two men and inclined his head took a step closer to them. "I have decided to grant your request, Ser Balon Swann. I will form a KIngsguard and you will be the Lord Commander."

Balon Swann looked extremely relieved at the acceptance and inclined his head. "I thank you, Your Grace," he said, putting a hand on his sword and pulling it out. Jon took an involuntary step back but going to one knee, Balon lifted his sword towards him.

"I offer you my service," Balon Swann repeated the ancient oath that all knights throughout the long history of Westeros had said, "I will shield you back and keep your council. I will give my life for yours if need be. I swear by the Old Gods and the New."

"And I vow you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table," Jon gave the response that all lords had given to those who had sworn service since the days of the Rhoynar, "And I pledge to you that I will ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear by the Old Gods and the New. Arise, Ser Balon Swann as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard of the King of the North."

Balon sheathed his sword and stood, a massive smile on his face. Jon felt somehow relieved to have done so. Perhaps this was the best thing that he could have done. Having a Kingsguard was a good idea, as Ser Davos said after-all. It felt right, and Jon had always been a man that followed his gut.

"And what of you, Magen Lannister?" he asked turning to him. "What service can you give me and the Kingdom?"

"I'm no bloody guard if that's what you're asking," Magen replied. "I was born for one thing, Your Grace. The sea, to be out there, the spray of the sea on my face, the endless leagues of water around me and the rocking and swaying of a ships deck. I would request service in your navy."

"We don't really have a navy," Jon said to which Davos cleared his throat was with Davos today and interrupting him, Jon wondered?

"Not entirely true, Your Grace," the Hand said. "Stannis fleet that came north with him, technically came under your command after his death. Don't ask me how, but it happened, and the men on the ships are getting restless. They sent me a couple of ravens, asking what they should be doing."

"Alright," Jon said. Honestly, he had forgotten about that fleet. Where was it anyway? White Harbor? "Kneel before me, swear fealty, and you will be given command of the fleet. However, before I give you anything, what was it that Queen Cersei asked of you that you couldn't fulfill? I would have the truth of the matter."

"She sent me to stop Daenerys Targaryen's fleet," Magen said. Even as he spoke, his face grew drawn and memories dark passed over his mind. "Dragons….I had never believed they existed except in the old tales. But that bitch, she had _three of them._ We were just over a dozen ships. Against hundreds. There was no chance, I swear by all the Gods! I lost most of my men within minutes because we simply didn't have a chance."

"Don't worry," Jon promised him. "I will not ask you to do anything so reckless."

Even as he said it though, Jon couldn't understand how Cersei had been so reckless with her own ships. He had heard reports of the massive invasion fleet. Yet how could they begin to even imagine that a small group of boats could stop them.

Oh, forgive him. _Ships._ Jon had already been given shit over incorrectly calling them boats once before. He'd rather not encounter _that_ again.

"Then we have an accord," Magen said. He drew his own sword, got to his knee and repeated the same oath that Ser Balon Swann had given him. Jon gave the same response, and soon enough, Magen was on his way, being escorted to Maester Wolkan, who would write up orders for the navy and his commission as the head of the navy.

"Now I just have to find a cloak for you that symbolizes your office," Jon said once Magen had left. "I say we go with black."

"That is a strange color for the Kingsguard," Balon Swann replied. "The Kingsguard has always been white."

"Do you really want to be reminded that Queen Cersei kicked you out for no good reason?" Davos asked him.

Balon's eyes narrowed as he thought about that. "Absolutely not," he agreed.

"I think black would be a good color," Jon said.

"Why black?" Balon asked.

"Jon was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch before he became King," Davos asked, "And the Free Folk call him King Crow."

Balon shrugged. Jon was rather excited, although now, he had to choose a few other Kingsguard. Perhaps Brienne of Tarth may be willing to join. Although she was sworn to Sansa, so he wasn't sure how she would take such an offer. Would she view it as a confliction of loyalties?

Now that he thought about it, who else _could_ take on the role of Kingsguard?


	50. Epi 8, Ch 6: Yara

***Yara***

Honestly, she couldn't have told anyone how long she had been on the _Silence._ She had lost track of days a long time ago. She had once been told one of the first things to leave for prisoners was their perception of time. How they counted time in their own minds.

She had thought only weak shits had that happen to them. Yet she was beginning to be convinced of it. The hold she was in got very little outside light so it was hard to tell the day from the night, except for the amount of volume of walking that was done above her.

She had taken to using her fingernail to carving out of the wooden walls how many days she had been stuck in this prison. Yet in the harsh light cast by a solitary candle, she could barely count them.

She was hurt, at least once a day a random crew member would give her a beating. She was a tough woman. She was Iron Born. She did not cry out, but just gritted her teeth and took it. Fuck them! That's what her reply was to anyone who tried making her scream!

She wasn't alone. No, there was three women there as well. They said nothing to her, and her chains was such she couldn't get closer. Yet she could tell a broken animal when she saw it. And these women, no matter how strong they once had been, were broken. They were naked, and cowered except to grab what food was given them.

That was one thing that Yara couldn't complain about. She was fed regularly, and not small portions either. She was usually given a small loaf of bread and some wine. Enough that she would always feel a little foggy in the head. Yet they didn't give her water, and the wine did have a strange taint to it. Yet, she knew that the chances of rescue was extremely slim, and no matter the taste, she needed to keep her strength up. Only that would allow her to continue enduring the beatings.

They were also blessed, if blessed Yara could call it, with a bucket for each woman to shit and piss into. Each day, a crew member would enter, grab the buckets and dump them, to return with them empty, if not cleaned out.

If her hands weren't tied behind her back, Yara would have taken the opportunity to strangle the man and take his keys. They always had keys, no matter who came. Yara couldn't help but feel this was part of the torture and breaking method of Euron Greyjoy. Show the women the key to freedom abut never be able to grab it. She was also at such an angle that even if she were flexible enough, she couldn't have used her feet to break the guards neck.

She had seen a Braavosi do that once. It had been rather exhilarating. Especially the sex with the young man afterwards. She had a bo0y and girl in every port, Salt Wives and Salt Husbands for the taking. Too bad Daenerys Targaryen frowned upon it.

She had given up trying to talk to anyone. No one would talk, so she was forced to just sit there, wondering when the next beating or meal would come.

For several days, perhaps a week or so, they had been at anchor. She had been on ships long enough to know the difference between being anchored and sailing. No, they were definitely anchored.

She rested her eyes on the woman in the far corner of the room. Saggy breasts hung over skin that had once been well-sculpted but now had turned a little flabby from disuse. She was filthy, grim covering her entire body. Her hair was not well kept, instead hanging in clumpy strands.

Yara honestly couldn't tell why she was a favorite whore of the sailors of the _Silence._ She had no idea what she had been before being captured, but it was clear now that she was no more than a bitch to be fucked whenever the crew felt horny.

She refused to become like that! No matter what would happen, she wanted to remain Yara Greyjoy. Not some pathetic worm that couldn't even fend for herself. Even as she thought about it, the ship began to _feel_ different. She could feel it in the way thhe ship rocked and the sounds against the hull. The ship was moving.

 _At last, something to break up this damned monotony._

Even as she thought that, the cell door rattled open and in stepped the last man she wanted to see in the world.

"Well, well, if it isn't my Yara," Euron said, stepping in with a big grin on his face. "You have indeed grown up. Very nice. I am a raper and reaver but I don't rape girls that haven't matured into women yet. And you, dear niece, have indeed grown."

"What do you want?" she snapped, feeling heat rising to her face. "You have had me beaten daily, and yet you are too scared to show your cunt face to me and do it yourself?"

"Me?" Euron asked innocently, turning his fingers to point at himself. "Hurt you? No, no, my Yara. I don't hurt people."

"No, you just want to rape me," Yara retorted.

"Of course," Euron said. "Hurting has no real purpose, and that's why I don't hurt people. Raping though, has a bonding effect between raper and raped. Just look at these women around me! They used to always be spouting off shit about the Lord of Light, but the only Lord they pray to now is the Drowned God called Euron Greyjoy as he shows them another version of drowned."

"You are sick and twisted," Yara said, turning away from him and staring at the floor.

"Sick, no," Euron said in deadly earnestness. "Twisted, perhaps. Visionary, absolutely."

Yara didn't want to talk to him. He was psychotic and insane. Such men could not be reasoned with. They were all about themselves, narcistic to the end., She would not engage with such lunacy.

She heard grunting and out of the periphery of her vision, she saw Euron sit down, crossing his legs. What could he possibly want now? What did he think was going to change if he was level with her?

"We go now to Dragonstone to take it," Euron announced to her.

That really did get Yara's attention. Before she could stop herself she let out a cold laugh. Had this madness driven him to attempt the impossible? He could not take Dragonstone with Daenerys Targaryen roosting there like a hen in a chicken coop.

"Her dragons will burn you fleet to the very waterline,", she laughed. "I can't wait to see you the look on your face as the skin melts off of it."

"There is where you are wrong," the King of the Iron Islands said.

"I have seen her dragons at work," Yara balked.

Euron shrugged. "If she were there with her dragons, then you'd be correct," Euron agreed. "Yet she isn't. She was frightfully pissed off, you may have missed it, but Dorne was vanquished and the Reach realigned themselves with the Iron Throne. No, the poor delusional bitch has had to go herself to clean up the mess she's made of the war so far. Now, the cat is gone, so the mice can play."

What? How in Seven Hells had the war gone to such a shitty mess in so short a time? Euron must be lying. Crazed men believe anything and everything they think. She would wait until the ship was burning, then she would laugh as they all died, proving wrong this delusion of Euron Greyjoy's.

She did recall though that her first mate Temoon had said that the ships of the Reach had turned. Yet she had never believed that Highgarden had abandoned the cause. In the middle of the night, Yara could understand why he may have thought that.

Yet, what if it is all true?

"I do hope your cockless brother is there," Euron said, his eyes fixed on Yara's face with an uncanny determination. His eyes had not once wandered to Yara's breasts since he had made the lewd joke about her maturity earlier. "I want to see if removal of his manhood had stripped him of the Iron Born spirit."

"Then you would kill him and be that much closer to gaining the Salt Throne permanently," Yara growled.

"Yes!" Euron said his eyes alighting with a fire deep inside. "I want him to die with honor. I want him to die, proving he is still Iron Born. I don't want him to die as a cowering cur, like a beaten bitch. I want him to show the world that you may have removed his cock, but that doesn't stop him from being whom he was always meant to be."

Yara wasn't sure she was hearing him correctly. Euron wanted to die fighting so he could prove he was Iron Born? What point was there how her brother died? He'd still be dead and there would be one less contender for the Salt Throne.

"What does it matter how Theon would die?" Yara demanded.

" _What does it matter?"_ Euron asked as if the question was ludicrous. "It matters very much. My brother was Iron Born, no doubting that. The seed was strong through him. If you brother were to die a coward though, it would prove that my brother could not produce sons that could live through a fight or die honorably. You may not have remembered, but you two older brothers died trying to beg for mercy."

"That's a lie!" Yara shouted, and despite the chains that bound her to the wall, she yanked forward. She couldn't get out far enough to actually attack him, and Euron turned up his head and laughed, howling to the ceiling in his humor.

" _Lie_?" Euron mocked, making his voice to imitate Yara's. He actually did a passable impression, much to her hatred and chagrin. " _Lie?_ Never. The truth is far too much fun. What did your father tell you? That Rodrik and Maron died with a dozen sword wounds, holding their guts in one hand as they fought with the other, bravely defending Pyke?"

Honestly, Balon had never really talked about her older brothers, except that they had fought and died valiantly. He had never told her any details, but then again, it wasn't like her father had actually fought in the battle.

"Rodrik froze in midbattle," Euron said with a shake of his head. "He dropped his sword and allowed himself to be killed by a common Baratheon swordsman. Meron was weeping for his mother as if he were still suckling when Jaime Lannister cut him in half. It was a pitiful display of the two elder sons of Balon Greyjoy, not worth the long, proud history of House Greyjoy. Yet do not for one moment mistake my intentions, my Yara."

Yara refused to believe that her brothers had died so cowardly. Had they died? Oh course they had. Yet they had been brave and true warriors. She had seen them sparring many times as a child. Even if they didn't kill a dozen foes, surely they killed their fair share.

"For almost eight thousand years the mainland has shit on us," Euron said, his voice taking on a dreamy quality. "They have stolen the lands they rightfully belonged to us. We once owned all the coastline of the western part of the mainland, and such cities as Old Town were ours. We owned the Arbor island and Bear Island. But they were stolen from us, forcing us to make a living off the filthy islands we call the Iron Islands. I plan to change all that, to put the Greyjoys back on the map that even my dear brother and his conquests of the North never achieved."

"Oh really?' Yara rolled her eyes. "And how do you plan to do that?"

"Unfortunately, the Salt Throne cannot give us the respect we are owed," he said. He stroked his chin as he spoke. "No, only the Iron Throne will do. Once I sit myself upon the Iron Throne, we will be a power worth reckoning with. The shame of the Iron Islands will be replaced with great praise. We will be the ones who shit on the Seven Kingdoms, and not the other way around."

"There is a simple problem with your grand scheme," Yara rejoined. "Queen Cersei. She will not give up the throne to you."

"Not willingly, no," he agreed, a smile carving through his features. "But who said she had to be willing? Or even alive, for that matter. There are ways around the defiance of women. You will learn that soon enough."

Yara glared at him. No, she would not. She would kill him beforehand. Somehow, she wasn't really sure how, but she would not be his bitch that he could dominate.

"I have always respected you Yara," Euron said. "You were always strong. When the Baratheons and Lannisters stormed Pyke, I remember you begging to be allowed to fight. You were always a fighter, and I remember little Theon clutching your skirts. Yes, you did once pretend you were a lady. But you were always Iron Born. I respected that. That's why I need you to bare me bastard sons who can take the Iron Throne after I have taken it for myself and passed on."

"You may take my body, but you will never take my soul," Yara declared defiantly. "You will not have me."

Euron gave her a deadpan expression. "You may never have been taught the finer points of sex," he held his hands up in a halpless manner, "But trust me, my Yara. I don't _need_ your soul. All I need is your body and babies to come forth. As soon as I have at least a male bastard, there will be no point to having Cersei around, trust me."

He rose to his feet then, towering over her as he put his fingers to his lips. "Don't go telling anyone of the plan just yet," he said in mock begging. "I do hate my surprises being spoiled. Almost as much as I hate crew that I missed their tongues when I was removing them."

With that he turned away from her and left, laughing as left the hold. His laughter still rang in her ears long after he had left.

* * *

 _Yara was a child, walking through the vast halls of Pyke. She was looking for someone. She couldn't remember though. A fire was following her as she walked down the corridor, stopping when she did and moving when she did. Dozens of wooden doors lined each side of the hall, but she turned to none of them._

 _Who was she looking for? It wasn't her father, that was certain. Her brothers, they were all gone, off on an adventure somewhere. Not Yara though. Adventure could wait. She needed to find whomever she was looking for._

 _Her feet drew her to a single door, a door that was already open. She walked up to it, no fear in her small body. Nothing could hurt her in this castle. She entered, pushing the door open even further, and a woman was laid out on a stone slab._

 _"Mama?" she asked, stepping up to the woman. The skin had rotten away, the hair was gone as well, lying in clumps around the head. Yet, she would know her mother from anywhere. "What are you doing there? It's time to get up."_

 _The skull turned to her and twin milky eyes stared at her. "Why do you disturb me? I'm trying to sleep."_

A loud crashing awoke her from her dream. She immediately came to herself, despite being as little groggy. The crashing sound was followed by the sounds of shouting. Where were they? Were they at Dragonstone? Had Euron's fleet been intercepted mid-voyage?

She had no idea, but she was forced to listen to the sounds of battle rising above her. That was another thing she had learned during her times on the sea. She had learned how to tell the sounds of battle even below decks.

The other women cowered, but she paid them no mind. Let them cringe, she would not. The sounds of the battle carried on for quite a while. She couldn't tell who was winning or losing. Although she expected at any moment for the ship to be consumed in flame.

Yet time dragged on, and there was no sudden explosion of flames. No cries to abandon ship. Where was the wrath of the dragon queen to burn the enemy ships to the ground? She could hear large splashes, which could have been anything.

Was it possible that Euron had been telling the truth? Was Daenerys Targaryen not at Dragonstone? If she wasn't what had happened to the war effort? They had been posed to so easily take Westeros, what the fuck had happened?

Yara heard Euron's voice although she couldn't make out the words. The ship was slowing, she could tell that. More sounds of men running and yelling, although she highly doubted that there were any words in those shouts. She really wished she could see what was going on!

Although, when she really thought about it, did she really want to see her uncle being victorious? She had a dreadful feeling was that was what she would have seen. Not only had he defeated Yara, and wrecked the Mother of Dragon's fleet, she was

Then, the sounds quieted down, and she wondered what that meant. Yet, she couldn't keep her eyes awake, and soon she fell back to sleep. Her dreams were nonsensical, and she didn't remember them later. She was awoken by the sounds of heavy footsteps approaching the door to the hold.

The candle had burned out, so the entire room was plunged into darkness. However, underneath the door, she could see the bobbing light of a lantern. The latch turned and opened.

The door swung open to reveal Euron stood in the doorway. He held a lantern in his hand but the light danced over him, casting half of his body in shadow while the other side was illuminated by a soft glow that distorted features.

"Did I not say that I would take Dragonstone?" he asked, his voice deadly and menacing. In a way, Yara's skin crawled far more than when he was being loopy and lewd. It was murderous, filled with bloodlust. "A present, from the uncle that's going to fuck you."

He tossed his left hand forward, and something landed at Yara's feet. The light of the lantern did little to illuminate it, but she dared not look too closely at it. Yet Euron did not let her escape the sight of whatever it was.

"Look!" he growled, stepping forward. Yara could recall every story her parents had taught her to keep her in good behavior as a child. Euron Greyjoy was fulfilling that role, only this time, there was no fire, no comforting arms to let her know it was alright. " _Look!"_

Against her will, she looked at what had been thrown. On the floor was a helmet, a curved spiker stickling out the front and out the top. In it, a face looked out. Eyes looked blankly at her, a tongue sticking slightly out of the corner of the mouth. Dark eyes, for a dark face.

"Your damned Unsullied couldn't stop me from taking your Queen's stronghold," Euron said, his voice never rising above menacing. "She couldn't even protect her own fleet from me beforehand. Now, I am having scorpions that can shoot down dragons themselves being installed on the battlements. She isn't returning home."

Yara felt her heart sicken at what he was saying. She had bet everything on Daenerys Targaryen. Yet if Dragonstone was really lost, what hope was there for Yara? Where was her baby brother? What had happened to him?

"And my brother?" she asked.

Euron's reaction was alarming and violent. He swooped down on her, grabbed her by the throat. Lifting her up, gagging as he kept his hand tight, he slammed her hard against the wall. He still held the lantern in his right hand, but had lifted her with his left hand as if she were nothing. Splatters of blood were all over his face, and he smelled of blood. His eyes were dark and furious.

"Do you really think that cunt can save you from me?" he snarled, "I am the Storm. The first and the last. I will dominate you like I did you dragon bitches fortress. Your brother? He's a spineless toad that refused to even show up for the fight. If I see him, he will receive no mercy from me."

Yara gagged as her heart began beating harder and harder. The harder she struggled, the harder he gripped. She was beginning to fill with panic, certain she was going to die. Red spots began to pop up in her vision. Just as she was certain she was going to die, Euron let go, and she slumped to the floor, coughed harshly.

Euron said nothing as he turned and left her, slamming the door behind him and casting the room into darkness as she choked and vomited on the floor, unable to massage her throat for the chains that bound her.


	51. Epi 8, Ch 7: Jaime

***Jaime***

Ser Osmund Kettleblack rode up to Jaime, as the other man stood behind a tree, vomiting his guts out. Osmund pulled up and waited, Jaime's body wracked with chills as he spewed his entire dinner on the ground. One hand rested firmly on the tree with the other firmly clutching his gut. Both cold and warm warred at the same time for mastery and as he spat out the last of the stomachs contents, he stood up and leaned against the tree on the opposite side of the vomit.

"Something you ate?" Ser Osmund asked, pulling his water-skin from his saddle and holding it out to Jaime.

Jaime nodded, gratefully taking the waterskin. He popped the lid off, and raising it, poured a good amount of water into his mouth. He didn't touch his lips to the spout though, as he didn't want to foul it for his friend. The tradeoff was that some of the water fell outside his mouth. Jaime closed his mouth and swished the water as he handed the waterskin back. Once he was certain that he had enough of the foul taste out of his mouth, he spat the water onto the ground.

"I'm thinking those raw apples I ate did it," he admitted, wiping his lips with the back of his hands.

"Preston is also vomiting a lung out and he ate the apples same as you," Osmund replied.

Jaime grunted as he walked over to Tommen, and grabbing the saddle-horn pulled himself up and onto the horse. "How long until we reach the Roseroad?" he asked.

I'd say almost about nightfall," Osmund said. "We have been having a problem with stragglers though."

"How big a problem?" Jaime asked, slightly apply his heel into Tommen to start walking. Osmund fell in behind him, turning his horse to follow alongside Jaime.

"A couple hundred men. I have men prodding them along."

Jaime inclined his head. It wasn't a big deal of men. Not that he could blame them. They had marched long distances and fought in a massive pitched battle. There was no need to drive the men hard and to the point of dropping.

"Just make sure the stragglers are kept together," Jaime told him. "There is no need to push them too overly hard."

The sun was bearing down on them, and putting his golden hand up to cover his eyes, he saw the long lines of men marching. They were keeping pretty good order, although he could tell that the marching column bowed out at places where the men at the edge of the column had started to drift towards the side, not realizing they weren't still in line.

Every now and then, the column was broken up by wagons of supplies. The scorpions that Cersei had insisted he take were also there, breaking up the ranks. They also were on wagon beds, and their two men teams sat on the wagons, driving their horses forward to follow in line.

"Tell me," Jaime asked, putting down his hand and riding along the side of the column. "What will you do when the war is over?"

"Probably go home," Osmund said, "find myself a wife and settle down. My brother Osney says he knows a few ladies who are looking for good husbands."

"Is Osney the older one?" Jaime asked. He had only met Osney once before, when all three brothers had given testimony against Tyrion during his trial.

"No, that was be Osfryd," Osmund corrected.

"Ah, yes," Jaime accepted the correction.

In silence they rode for about a mile, riding around a man who had collapsed to the side of the road. A couple of his brothers in arms were trying to get the man back on his feet. Onwards they rode, until they rode past a grove of trees. Leaves were falling as they passed between the slender and Jaime was reminded of so many flowers for some reason.

"What about you?" Osmund asked, breaking the silence.

"What about me?" Jaime politely asked back.

"What will you do once the war is over?" Osmund sounded like the question should have been self-explanatory.

"I am going to Casterly Rock to take over the Lannister ancestral seat," Jaime said. "Take a wife, father some children. Live out my days growing fat."

"Huh."

Jaime turned to him, frowning. "What huh?" he asked.

Osmund shrugged. "It is nothing," he replied.

Jaime rolled his eyes. "Out with it," he said. "What is it?"

Osmund shrugged, lifting up his hand to brush aside a clump of black haired bangs that had decided to fall down to around his eyes. Not that it did the curly haired knight much good. His hair had always had a rather unfortunate habit of spilling out and having as mind of its own.

Jaime remembered a time when Ser Barristan Selmye had threatened to use his sword to shave off the hair. The old man had gotten tired Ser Osmund continually reaching up to brush it out of his face.

"II just figured you'd be returning back to King's Landing," Osmund finally replied.

"Why would I go back there?" Jaime asked.

Osmund looked rather uncomfortable and shrugged. Jaime didn't like it when people weren't upfront with him about whatever was on his mind. So he kept his eyes on the other man, boring into the other man. He said nothing, allowing the weight of his gaze do all the talking for him.

Finally, Ser Osmund cracked. "Well," he said uncomfortably, "Your sister is there. I just assumed that…well, that you would….would rather be with her."

Ah. Now Jaime understood. Maybe once upon a time, he'd have wanted to return to King's Landing. Be with Cersei. However, the woman he had loved, one who was both joy and anger, had been replaced. Cersei was now just filled with hatred and paranoia. He'd rather live a life devoid of such things.

"No," he shook his head. "I am done with Cersei and King's Landing. Let Euron Greyjoy do whatever he wants with her. I am going to Casterly Rock."

* * *

Night had fallen and they decided to make camp. Camp was a mere one league from the road, but the men were rather good spirits. They could see the road, they were getting closer to the end of their march. Perhaps another two weeks and they would have no more need of marching, as they could settle down, and slowly advance forward, attacking the Dothraki hordes that were raping and pillaging Massey's Hook.

"I'd rather have a onehanded sword," Bronn was saying, sitting around the campfire. "Bastard swords and great swords are just too fooking hard to control in battle."

"Obviously that's because you don't have the practice," Preston Greenfield retorted. "A bastard-sword gives you the added strength of two hands while not being as unwieldy."

"Only cunts without large cocks need anything larger than a one-handed sword," Bronn said, prodding the fire with a long stick. "A onehanded sword gives you much more versatility."

"I have to agree with Preston," Osmund said. "A singlehanded sword just doesn't have the same weight and cutting power that a bastard blade has."

"Are you agreeing because you really believe it?" Bronn asked, "Or are you only agreeing because you both are fookers who joined the Kingsguard?"

"Does it really matter?" Osmund asked.

"No," Bronn shrugged, "Not really."

Jaime listened to the continue discussion between various sword types without actually being engaged in it. He had too much on his mind to worry about it right now. He wasn't actually even sitting around the fire, instead, standing at the very edge of the firelight.

His mind turned to tactics and strategy, his hands clasped behind his back. In his mind's eye, he could see all of Westeros, even river, road, and city. Mountains were seared into his brain, which regions was loyal to which lord and what house each lord was part of.

During his time in the Kingsguard, he had taken to studying the maps of Westeros. He had been utterly disappointed that King Aerys had decided to use him for rather lackluster tasks. So, he had taken his time to studying and learning.

Since then, he kept up the practice. He would go through his memory, drawing a map of Westeros in his head, and then placing the features, cities and other details in. Here, near the Kingswood, there was two series of low-lying hills that stretched around either side of the road. Their march had kept the low-hills of the south to their left as they had angled their approach.

They would reach the road and enter the Kingswood at no later than early morning. As long as they could keep good time, they would reach the junction of the King's Road and the Roseroad in maybe four days time.

A small breeze was sweeping the region, and he let its chilled embrace sweep around him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. This was the life. Being in the open, with thousands of men who had the same goals as you did. To feel the firmness of the earth beneath one's feet and for the grass to tickle the soles of your feet.

He closed his eyes and let the surrounding night embrace him.

Jaime awoke the next morning, feeling refreshed. He looked up at roof of his pavilion, seeing the intricate designs of the lions that circled around the top of the circular pavilion. Lions that seemed to be dancing. A rather odd thing, he decided to wake up to.

Grabbing the blanket, he peeled if off and stood up. His back popped several times as he stood up, and he winced. _Damn, I must be getting old._ With that last thought, unpleasant, he stepped out into the open fields. A mist clung to the camp around him, and the sun burned through the early morning haze.

He walked up to his squires tent, a lad of thirteen from Feastfires, west of Casterly Rock along the coast. He flipped open the tent, and the lad grunted, turning over in his sleep.

"Time to get up Steffon," he called into the tent. "I need you to fetch the cook to make me a meal to break my fast."

The lad grunted, moaning as he sat up. His eyes were puffy and he rubbed them. Steffon was most definitely not a morning person, Jaime decided.

Soon enough, the camp was alive as men moved to their various tasks. A quick meal followed, with Bronn and the rest of the lords approaching him, to get their allotment on the march. It wasn't quiet yet the second hour after the sun first rose that they were back on the road, marching towards the Kingswood.

Jaime rode at the head of the vanguard, Bronn by his side. Preston and Osmund were back with the eight hundred surviving knights of the Battle of the Prince's Pass. Jaime was glad that the sell-sword was not going on about his castle and bride, as he seemed to be so wrapped up in those details.

"Tell me, Ser Jaime," Bronn said, "Do you think you could kill a dragon with your Valyrian steel sword?"

Jaime shook his head. "If any steel would I'd assume Valyrian would do the trick," he said. "Yet I highly doubt it'd be able to."

"Too bad," Bronn shrugged. "So tell me, you killed the Mad King, right?"

"It's not exactly a secret."

"Is it true that his blood was liquid gold?" Bronn asked, "I heard some of the lads talking about it."

"They also said my father shit gold," Jaime replied. "Do you believe every rumor you hear?"

"Only when it comes to gold," Bronn shrugged.

The Kingswood was still a good half mile off. Jaime looked at it, the trees inviting with their still green foliage. Even as he watched, smoke began to rise from the forest. He held up his hand, and the vanguard came to a halt. His eyes scanned the woods.

"What is it?" Bronn asked.

Before Jaime could begin to answer, flames began to erupt from the trees. The flames raced down the forest before them, and soon the entire wood before them was alit in fire. Jaime stared at forest fire, and even as his entire vision was covered on either side, he began to feel the ground rumbling beneath his horse.

Out of the woods, dark forms charged outward of the burning trees and he saw thousands of horsemen pounding forward. They were so close, there was little time to prepare. The Dothraki were on the field.

"Form up!" he bellowed, and even as the vanguard hurried to form up, he turned and spurred his horse back towards the main army. "Spears and shields! Spears and shields!" His voice roared and the soldiers fell into line, hurrying as fast as they could. Ser Osmund and Ser Preston were riding up to him, hundreds of knights pounding behind them.

"Hold them off as long as you can!" Jaime bellowed and Preston threw a wave at his direction as he drew his sword.

The knights pounded past him, and even as they pounded past, the sounds of combat came from the vanguard. The column shook itself out as he continued bellowing the order, the twenty thousand men forming a long line of shields in the front and spears in the rear. Behind the main line archers took their positions. Jaime was proud of just how fast the men were forming up. Yet they'd soon learn just how much this would help them.

"My lord, Jaime!" an overweight lord rode up to him, his face pouring sweat as if he had already been working long and hard. "What's going on?"

"The Dothraki are attacking us, Lord Westerliing," Jaime said.

Lord Gawen Westerling paled as he heard the words. "But….but, I thought they were still bottled up in Massey's Hook!" he exclaimed.

"Does it fooking look like they are now?" Bronn snapped.

Jaime winced at the sell-swords uncouth manner towards Lord Westerling. Gwen Westerling was a good man, and he'd hate to think that he was going to be offended. Yet, there wasn't any time for fucking caring about the niceties, now was there?

Westerling seemed to be panicking, and there was no time for that. Jaime grabbed his reins and pulled Westerling's horse closer to him. The motion drew the fat lord's attention to him, and Jaime locked eyes wiith him.

"I need you to form up on the far left as the start of a second line," Jaime said, taking control. If he lost control, they'd be fucked. And hard. "If the first line breaks, we'll need a good solid line to fall back on."

"Alright," Westerling agreed, his whole body trembling even as he said so. "Alright, Ser Jaime."

"Go, go!" he shouted, pointing the man in the direction he needed him to go.

He waited until Lord Westerling and the men of his house began pounding after them. The second line was roughly a hundred yards behind the front line, and he was going to need a third line. If he could find Lord Terrence Kenning, he could have him form that third line. Make a progressively harder defense behind repeating lines.

He turned to Bronn, and he was alarmed by what he saw on the face of the other man. This man, who would spit in the eye of any lord if given enough money, his eyes were wide with fear. That was unsettling to say the least.

"You should get out of here while you still have a chance," Bronn said.

"I'm not abandoning my men in their moment of need," Jaime snapped angrily.

"They are going to swarm us and there isn't anything we can do," Bronn retorted. "You're a general, not a damned footman. Get as far away as you fooking can."

"No!" Jaime said angrily and with that, he roped forward, looking for Lord Terrence.

After some time, he found the aged Lord, riding on an equally aged horse. A quick set of orders and Lord Terrence peeled off his men to begin the third line. Turning his horse around, he rode hard to the front line. Even as he arrived, the vanguard was shattering under the weight of the assault and was trying to flee back to the lines. The knights were also riding hard back, turning every now and then to fight off the thundering Dothraki horde.

Jaime could see men trembling as they braced for the attack. The tales of the Dothraki were many and none were exactly good. No, they knew of the Dothraki Screamers and their prowess on their battlefield. Jaime drew his sword and rode along the back of his men, his salmon colored cloak billowing behind him.

"Hold men!" he shouted, "This is our country. Yes, there is a lot of those fuckers out there! But we can hold them here! We refuse to allow them to rape our women, take of children as slaves. We fight for freedom from the Queen who would put us under the tyranny of the Targaryen's once again. Stand men, and fight!"

It was a short speech, but the cheers that rose from those who could hear him was enough to make him nod his head. Yes, they could hold out just fine. They just needed to be brave and fight well, and they could hold their own.

Even as he rode, the knights and vanguard made their way to the front line, the Dothraki whirling around and back before making contact. Ser Preston rode up to Jaime, his sword covered to the guard in blood.

"Their swords can't penetrate our steel plate armor!" he boasted. Jaime could see many new strokes across the man's breastplate, and that did indeed seem the case.

"Where is Ser Osmund?" he asked.

"Right here," came the reply. "Young Preston is only partially correct."

Jaime turned to see that Osmund's arm hung limp from his side. Blood coated his chainmail as it streamed downwards. Seeing the concern in Jaime's eyes, he waved it off.

"Don't worry about it," said Osmund, tearing off a piece of his tunic and started to wrap it around his arm.

Jaime turned to see the Dothraki trun and begin pounding towards the line. This was it! This was going to be very difficult and hard, thousands of Dothraki pounding hard at the line. If they could hold, they may just have a chance.

"Archers!" he bellowed, "Nock arrows!"

All down the line, archers put arrows to bowstrings. "Aim!" The bows rose up, the screams of the Dothraki highlighted by the raging fire behind them. "Track your targets and loose!"

Hundreds of arrows let loose, and Jaime saw as many riders and horses went down, struck by the arrows. But they kept pounding forward. Even as the archers kept up a steady fire of arrows that slashed into the pounding hordes.

Dothraki archers jumped up on their horses even as they rode and began letting loose their own arrows. Many of the arrows struck the tower shields of the Lannister forces but a few struck helmets or exposed arms. A few men collapsed in the shield line, and spearmen moved forward over the bodies of their fellows, to give a solid frontal wall.

Then, the Dothraki slammed hard into the line. Men all down the line were pushed back by the weight of horse and rider, but firming up, they pushed back, spears pushing outwards, slaying both rider and horse. Many Dothraki leapt off the back of their horses and beyond the shield-wall, falling between the archers and shield-wall.

With curved blades they attacked archer and spearman. Fierce individual contests ran up and down the line, archers aiming at the Dothraki in their midst and shooting them or being cut down by the Dothraki blades that cut through their leather jerkins with ease. Yet the spearmen had a much easier time. What Ser Preston said was true, the Dothraki arakhs couldn't cut through the armor of the heavy infantry. Many Dothraki were felled when their weapons got stuck in the armor, to have spearheads driven into their exposed flesh.

When they would kill their enemy, the spearmen and the archers would return to the horde that was pressing forward. Even though the weight of the horses and the occasional blow fell a man, the line held firm. Even beginning to push forward at place, the shield-wall refused to break.

Almost as soon as the assault had begun, it ended. The Dothraki wheeled around and retreated, leaving the line very much in place. There were many dead and dying on the field, but most of them were Dothraki and warriors and horses.

"Step back behind the line of dead bodies!" Jaime ordered, and the shield-wall did just that. They took about three long steps back, then they were completely behind the bodies of the dead and dying. A few men dragged wounded comrades after them or quickly dispatched a wounded Screamer with a quick thrust of spear or sword.

"That was really intense," Preston commented.

"Don't think for once second that those fookers are done," Bronn said, still looking terrible. "They'll be back."

"I am inclined to agree with Ser Bronn," Osmund said. A man was tying his bandage more firmly into place. "We haven't seen the last of them."

As he finished saying that, the screams rose again, and Jaime looked. They were coming again. A mass wave of humanity was roaring towards them, weapons waving high in the air. He could see the sun glinting off their weapons.

"Ready yourselves!" he shouted. "Archers prepare to loose!"

Again the archers were soon firing over the heads of the front ranks, cutting down dozens of horses and riders. Even as the Dothraki advanced, this time, they kept up a steady stream of arrows themselves. Jaime could have sworn it sounded like rain, the thudding of hundreds of arrows on shields and men getting hit, screaming as they fell, dead or wounded.

The Dothraki didn't let up the flight of arrows until they hit the shield-wall. It was a repeat of last time, Dothraki cutting downwards with arakhs and spears as Lannister heavy infantry pushed spears into them. This time, the warriors who jumped over were many more. Jaime rallied the _Guards of the Kingslayer_ and Bronn and rode down the line, cutting down the Dothraki before they could cause too much disruption.

Before they knew it, the Dothraki had broken off again. Jaime's sword was covered with blood, having killed a dozen Dothraki who were busy fighting others. All their swords were bloodied, no man was without weapons that dripped from blood.

Again he advanced the line back, but it was clear that both assaults had caused a nibbling effect on the line. The front line was nowhere as numerous as it had been before. Yet if the Dothraki kept up these attacks, they could basically walk back to the second line, pass through and form on the third line.

A third attack happened in like manner. This time, the Dothraki nearly broke through the line at several places. It was only the timely arrival of the knights that kept the line from breaking several times. The Dothraki seemed to be fixated on breaking the front line, and Jaime couldn't help but think they could simply stand still and the Dothraki would chew themselves on the line.

"Why don't the Dothraki try flanking around us?" Preston asked shortly after the third assault had been beaten off.

"The Dothraki aren't flexible in their thinking," Osmund offered. "II knew a man who had fought them before and he said that he and his company held for a day, just by standing one direction."

"I highly doubt they were facing a hundred thousand of these damned fellows," Bronn grumpily said. He hadn't been complaining too much, but he was not happy about fighting.

"Wait…." Jaime held up his hand, "Where are the others? We haven't been facing a hundred thousand of them."

He turned around, looking to the low lying hills, and suddenly realized what was happening. "We are about to be flanked!" Jaime said in horror as the hills began to darken as thousands of Dothraki began to swarm over the hills. "You two!" he shouted to Preston and Osmund, pointing a finger at them. "Get to the third line and have them prepared to be taken in the rear! Bronn, you take the left and I'll take the right, get the second line to turn!"

"There's no time!" Bronn argued but Jaime didn't care. He rode hard, Tommen pounding his hooves on the hard dirt. As Jaimed passed by, he kept waving his hand forward and shouting, "With me! With me!"

Men ran behind him, and even as he approached, he saw that Lord Westerling had already seen the danger thundering down on his flank and began to move men into place. He rode up to him, men filing into a line, although the Dothraki were thundering down fast.

"There's no way we'll be formed in time!" Lord Westerling said, trembling as the thousands of savages were about to ram into them.

"We don't have a choice," Jaime said, gripping the hilt of _Widow's Wail._ He could feel his heart thundering with anticipation as they ran against time to get a defense formed. They would never stand a chance.

Even as he thought this gloomy thought, a couple hundred knights in heavy armor pounded forward, a suicide mission to buy their comrades time. As Jaime looked at them, he saw the resignation in their faces. They all knew what they were doing, and what they were offering.

"There's no way that they will be able to hold off the attacked!" Westerling exclaimed, but even as he said so, the Dothraki seemed to become obsessed with these knights and the entire force seemed to gravitate towards them.

"They just need to buy us enough time," Jaime argued, and the sound of knights and Dothraki clashing soon permeated the air.

He turned and rode down the line, urging the men on. Even as he did, the Dothraki crashed into the front line again. This time, the horse archers were not aiming at the line. Their arrows flew over the heads of the front line and sliced into the men rushing to form the sides. Men dropped every few feet as arrows caught them in the leg, ribs, arm or head. Many arrows missed their targets, but enough hit that men began to stumble over the fallen.

An arrow whistled past Jaime but he paid it little heed. The line was just finishing to form when the flanking Dothraki continued their attack. Jaime returned to see the attack from the hills continuing, and there were no knights that returned. They had bought enough time, and now the arrows from their new line slashed into the new attackers.

Then, Jaime looked around him, and saw that Dothraki were attacking from all sides. There was no escape now. They would have to fight, kill or be killed. Twice the attackers were thrown back, and twice more they came. The losses were mounting and soon the Dothraki were changing tactics. No longer were they firing at the line they faced, but at the sides of the other shield-walls. Men were hit from the sides and backs and fell, only to have others rush up to take their places.

Jaime made sure after the first all-sides attack to get a sizable rearguard in the middle of the battle, where they could plug any gaps that might appear. Each attack, he constricted the line a little more so that the loss of men wouldn't cause gaps to appear in the lines. Yet, slowly the lines kept shrinking, and when night finally fell, the entire line was no more than two hundred yards apart from each other at any point.

He called a council of war, and all the lords gathered together and they reported their losses. It was rather heavy for the small army they had. Three thousand men were wounded and perhaps thirteen hundred were dead, including the right hundred knights that had bought them the time to establish their lines.

"We only have sixteen thousand men left that can actually fight," Jaime informed them after they had told him everything. "If they attack again, and they could attack at any time, we may not be able to keep this up for another full day. I want three of every four men keeping an eye out. Four hours on, four hours off. I want us to be able to fight with three fourths of our force at any moment. Intervals of every hour you'll wake up the fourth man and let the other sleep."

"I'm not sure if they decide to attack though that even that will be enough," Lord Lewys Ledden of Deep Den remarked. He had lost an ear during the fighting earlier today and a bandaged covered half of his face. "We can't get any help, as the Tyrell's are still days away. Can we not surrender? Perhaps Daenerys Targaryen will not kill us."

"Did you happen to see Daenerys Targaryen out there?" Bronn demanded. "No. Maybe she burned the damned Kingswood, but tell me truthfully. Why would she allow thousands of her soldiers to die when she could fly in on dragons to save these men."

"Because she wants to show us she doesn't need dragons to destroy us," Osmund said. He had been silent throughout the Council of War but now he spoke. "Does she really need to be here though? If we surrender, maybe we'll be kept alive. But we all know what happened on Dragonstone to those who surrendered. We know that at least one of us would get killed without a second thought.

 _That one is me._ Jaime thought uncomfortably.

"The Dothraki don't take prisoners," he finally said. "Robert told me many times that. He always said, _'Jaime, there is three things you never want. You never want to get fat. You never want to run out of wine. And you never want to face the Dothraki on an open field.'_ Now my brother-by-law might have not be a really good king, but he understood war. The only way we are getting out this alive is to kill every one of those inbreed sons of bitches. _"_

With that, the council of war came to an end. Even as they left the fire that they had gathered around, Jaime laced his fingers together and looked into the fire. Its crackling fires were hypnotic to say the least. How many times had he found King Aerys II staring into the fire as he was doing now?

 _"Fire is pure_ ," Aerys told him once. _"It hates nothing, has no fear. To be burned it to have weakness burned away. That is why the whole world must one day burn, so weakness is forever burned away."_

The likelihood that he would see this global fire was doubtful. No, most likely, they would all be dead in a day or two. With a shudder, he shook his head, and laying himself on the ground, he closed his eyes and tried to find some sleep.

Yet he seemed to barely have closed his eyes when he was being shaken away by his squire. Stoffen's eyes were wide. The lad didn't even need to say anything when he could hear the sounds of soldiers on the attack. Pushing himself up, he ran over to Tommen and mounted him. Without waiting for anyone else, he rode forward, his cloak made of Myrcella's dress billowing behind him, as he rode towards the front.

Arrows began to clatter all around him, pinning men into place. Arriving to the eastern line, the troops facing the Kingswood, which still burned from its massive fire, he looked over the heads of the men. Soldiers in black leather and wielding sable shields marched forward, the spear tips extended before them as they marched in unison, wending their way up and around the dead of the prior days battle.

"Those aren't Dothraki," a voice said from behind him.

He looked back at Ser Preston. The man looked like shit, although Jaime perhaps looked that way as well. He looked back at the advancing host, the Dothraki holding back on all sides but firing massive waves of arrows at the Lannisters to hold them in place.

"I believe those are the Unsullied," Jaime said, "And if that's the case, then they might just break through us. I hear the Unsullied are the best soldiers in the world."

"You are shit for keeping hope up," Preston grumbled.

Jaime couldn't argue with that. Even as he stood there, drawing _Widow's Wail_ and screaming defiantly, horns could be heard from the west. Jaime sagged as he turned to face that direction. He could see troops arriving in long columns of dirt rising from behind him and he nearly dropped _Widow's Wail_ in his despair. Who were these troops?

"Gods damn you!" he screamed, holding up his sword and riding towards the western lines. "Isn't it enough already!"

He arrived soon enough, weaving his way around the supply wagons and scorpions that had been parked in middle of the army, their crews and the reserve watching the contest with great anxiety. HE arrived, to find Bronn there.

"Who are these fuckers we have to deal with now?" he demanded.

Bronn turned to him, and started laughing hysterically. _Good Gods, now he has lost his mind_! Bronn grabbed him, unable to speak from his laughter and pointed to where flags could be seen. Jaime looked, and a wind caught the pennants and snapped them outward.

Tears poured from Jaime's eyes. The Reach had arrived.

 _To be continued in Episode 9: Spoils of War, Part 2_

* * *

 _ **Episode Notes:**_

 _ **-Jon is indeed a firewight. That's what GRRM has stated. However, unlike zombies, he's still very much alive. I think it's not so much there isn't blood flowing through him, as that the blood has simply reconnected to veins that weren't damaged.**_

 _ **-I thought of starting the Battle of the Roseroad with a nighttime attack (as I am calling Field of Fire 2.0). It would have started similar, expect it being nighttime.**_

 _ **-I always intended Balon Swann and Magen Lannister to head north and pledge their services to Jon Snow-Sand-Targaryen. I thought of having Magen decide to be a part of Jon's Kingsguard but decided it wasn't in line with the previously established personality of Magen, who I intend to have another POV chapter towards.**_

 _ **-Sansa does not love Littlefinger. Not really. Littlefinger knows how to manipulate people, and he has her so wound up and twisted he could have told her day was night and she'd probably have agreed. Does she have feelings towards him? Yes, but I'd say it's a nicer version of the "love" Theon had for Ramsey when he was Reek. But what happens to them both in the end will partly be Littlefinger's fault.**_

 _ **-There was going to be an Arya chapter, but I scrapped it to keep closer to the two main plot-lines in Winterfell and the War of Queens.**_

 _ **-I thought it'd be nice to have a Dickon chapter in this episode, along with a Sam chapter.**_

 _ **-One of my complaints with the "Loot Train Attack" was the fact that the Dothraki were all super-capable at cutting the throats and legs off the soldiers without actually touching their armor. It was established as early as Season 1 that the arakhs were pretty useless against the chainmail armor of the Westerosi knights. I thought it would be good to add it into here where even though they can kill Lannister soldiers, their swords are pretty useless. This also is something that happened during the Crusades. Muslim scimitars and arrows couldn't penetrate the armor of German Knights. Men with less armor was fair game, but Germanic knights were so heavily armored that their weapons were useless.**_

 _ **-Grey Worm's chapter was going to be a bit longer, but I had lots of trouble making it longer.**_

 _ **-Same thing with Yara's chapter. It at one point was going to be two pages less because writing her when her chapters were pretty much her sitting around doing nothing was rather hard. Lukily I did though, otherwise we'd have never has the Euron post-Dragonstone stuff!**_


	52. Epi 9: Spoils of War Pt 2, Ch 1: Jorah

**Episode 9: Spoils of War Part 2**

 ***Jorah***

Jorah stood on a balcony, looking at the waterfalls that fell around Bear Island. The thundering of the water was like the roar of dragons. A smile touched his face as he leaned forward, resting his full weight on the handrail. A stiff chill breeze blew from the east, from the Bay of Ice but he found it invigorating.

The morning light streamed through the trees and hit the water, causing rainbows to explode through the dense spray of the falls.

"You are up early," a voice called from behind him and he felt arms wrap around his waist from behind him. Reaching down, he grabbed her arms and gently rubbed them.

"So are you," he replied.

The woman nuzzled close to him from the back and he could feel her head resting between his shoulder blades. He moved himself so he could wrap his own arms around her and held her close, breathing in the scent of straw that came from the mattress of their shared bed. Unlike so many other nobles, he preferred to sleep next to his wife. Share the same bed. He could never understand why people would marry just to sleep apart.

"So what are you doing up, Jorah?" The woman asked.

"I had a dream about before we were together," he said, stroking her long hair in his hands. "I had contracted greyscale and had become lost south of the White Knife River."

"It was a dark time, my love," the woman agreed. "But that is past. We have two beautiful children and we shall love full lives."

The words filled Jorah with a great joy and happiness. He could have held his dear loving wife in his arms forever, letting the chilled air redden their skin as the sun rose. However, slowly the duties of the day called them both and she pulled back from him.

"I must see to the children," she said and walked away towards the inner chamber. She stopped and turned to him, Daenerys asked, "Are you coming?"

He looked on her silver hair, petite frame and strong bearing and all he wanted to do was say yes. Despite that though, he now realized he was dreaming. Daenerys Targaryen would not have married him. There was no chance that she ever had shared those affection for him. As much as he'd like to say, 'Yes' what point would there be to saying it to his dream?

"I can't," he shook his head. "With all my heart I wish I could. But this is a dream."

"Is it wrong if the dream is a good one?" The dream Daenerys asked.

"One day," he said firmly. "But not today. I still need to make the world better for you."

The phantom version of the woman he loved looked at him. A knowing look was in her eyes. A small smile spread across her lips. Two young faces of a strapping lad and a gorgeous lass. It tore at him so to not embrace them.

"We'll be waiting for you," she said and bidding him farewell, she turned and entered the house.

And with a sigh, Jorah awoke.

* * *

What he awoke to….at first it was hard to make out. His eyelids were heavy and seemed to rebel at the thought of opening. He opened them just long enough to see a fire crackling not far from his face, and felt the warmth of it. A voice spoke to him in calm, even tones. Despite the fact he could not make it out, he had no desire to do anything else then sleep. His eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep.

His eyes opened later, and Jorah heard the pitter-patter of rain falling on the roof above him. For some reason, he couldn't put his finger on why that seemed odd. He turned his face to look at the roof, and he was greeted by the sight of rough-hewn beams holding up an equally roof hewn boards. He could see something between the boards that locked them together, yet he couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was. The voice again spoke to him, and this time he could discerne the voice belonged to a man. Yet, he did not have the energy to wake fully up and he slipped back into another deep, dreamless slumber.

Then, he awoke. This time, his eyes felt no weariness, but he blinked at the harsh light that came through a window behind him, the light falling on his face. Weakly, he raised his hand to cover his eyes and with the other, slowly pushed himself into a better position. Relief spread through him once he was out of the light and in a shaded portion of the bed.

 _Where am I?_

Jorah's eyes scanned the room he was in. He was in a cottage, rough-hewn boarded walls holding up an equally rough-hewn ceiling. His mind clicked into place a memory of seeing them for a few moments and now upon a closer inspection, he could see that the stuff between the boards was a type of mortar. How it had managed to not all slip out of the ceiling boards was beyond him. He had never been an artisan or woodworker.

No, he had been a damned noble. Not damned as in proud, but damned as in he had brought shame to the Mormont name.

There was a firepit in the middle of the cottage, with a thick and high circle of rocks that helped shape the flames and contain it. It wasn't burning at the moment, but the burned remnants of a fire lay ashen in the firepit.

Next he saw a table of decent shape and build with four chairs surrounding it. Above the table was a set of hooks that hung from the ceiling, pots, pans, knives and ladles hanging from the hooks. Two doors to two rooms were on the other side of the room.

Yet it was a door next to the table that opened, and a hooded man entered, carrying an armful of logs. They weren't big, but by the way he was staggering forward, they must have been a burden almost too great. A long beard hung from the sun-bleached cloak and hood, which may have been a dark green many decades ago.

The figure dropped the logs in a haphazard pile next to the firepit and grunted, pulling himself as upright as he could. However, it wasn't too far, and he remained hunched a little near the shoulders that caused his head to droop. Brushing off wood and snow off his cloak and breeches, the man turned and walked with a pronounced limp towards the door and closed it.

"Good….." the man said, his voice old and tired. Reaching up, he grabbed his hood and pulled it back. Long grey hair fell in thin strands from his head, and in many places Jorah could see the skin of his head. "Now….is the man awake?"

He turned and Jorah saw the man looking at him. He was…..what was the best word to describe him? If he had been a piece of fruit, he would have been tossed into a rubbish bin and tossed out in short order with the rest of the refuse. Skin hung loosely from the man's jowls, his ears were shriveled and the hair on the front of his head was gone, revealing only a sun-spotted skull. His eyelids were shrunken in the sockets, making his eyes bulge out of his face.

Those eyes though. They were keen, with a wit that had not yet gone.

"At last you have joined the living," the man said, clapping his hands together, although they must have hurt doing so. The hand were shriveled to being no more than bones being held together by the skin. "How feel you?"

Jorah shrugged. "A little weak," he admitted, "And confused. Where am I?"

The man nodded as he hobbled up and put a hand on Jorah's forehead. "Well, your fever has gone down," the man said, his breath smelling like greasy bacon. "I wasn't sure you were going to awake, to be honest. I found you face-down in the snow about a league from my home. The Winter Fever was taking you, as my old Da called it. Luckily for you, I have experience treating this before. My lads and wife all came down with the Winter Fever at least once a piece."

Jorah had seen many people have the Winter Fever. They began to grow sleepy, and then they would fall asleep in the deep snow. Only they would never wake up. Not unless extreme measures were taken. Usually by kicking and hitting them hard enough that blood would start flowing again.

"I thank you," Jorah said to which the old man tutted. He stepped over to the table, grabbed a bowl that was on there and grabbed a spoon, hobbled back. The spoon and bowl trembled slightly in his hands as he stepped forward, and Jorah saw as the man stepped up to him there was a broth that looked rather cold and greasy, vibrating with the trembling of the man's hands. "Where am I?"

"You are about a day's ride for the King's Road, two hours ride to the White Knife western tributary from there, and perhaps another day's ride to Cerwyn," the old man said, spooning the broth and holding it to Jorah's lips. "It's cold, but the broth is still good, nonetheless. Winter may make a bitch of things, but my Ma's broth, that can't be spoiled. Hehehe."

A little bit of the broth sloshed over the edge of the spoon and landed on Jorah's exposed arm. Wiping off the broth, he reached up and grabbed the old man's hand, helping to steady his hand as he spoon fed Jorah.

To be frankly honest, Jorah had never tasted a shittier bowl of broth his entire life. Yet, despite the fact his nostrils rebelled and he nearly gagged, as he gulped down the broth, his belly rumbled loudly, hunger flooding him.

When the old man pulled back his hand, Jorah had to drop his hand as raise the other. It hadn't gone farther than his face when Jorah started. His whole hand was covered in the hard patches of greyscale. He looked down his arm, and there was no part of his arm that was free of it. He looked at the other arm, and found that much of his upper arm, starting for the shoulder was also covered, stopping a little short of the elbow. With his non-infected hand, Jorah reached up and felt his throat. The scales continued up his throat, clear up to his chin.

"No!" he objected as the old man put another spoonful to him. "I'm unclean!"

The old man gave a sad smile. "I know," he nodded his head. "I have tended you for two weeks now."

"But why?" Jorah asked, "How could you help me when you knew I was sick?"

The old man did not answer immediately, but shoved the spoon into Jorah's mouth. Jorah sipped the liquid meal and he pulled it back out. The old man continued spooning it in and out, each in with broth, each out empty.

"I am an old man," he said at long last. "I was there for the Fourth Blackfyre Rebellion and fought at the Battle of Wendwater Bridge. I also fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. I had a wife with a blessed massive bosom that my mouth couldn't fit around they were that large, and two strapping lads that thought I walked on water. They are both dead now, killed in the War of the Five Kings, and my wife was taken by the Pox. I have lived a full-life, and I know this is my last winter."

Jorah shook his head. "But why help a stranger like me?" he asked, looking at the face he now viewed with new respect and bewilderment. "You could continue living for much longer."

"I could," he agreed, "But I want to see my wife and children again. If helping you is the price needed, then I can see Miranda, Jak and Todde and know that I did a good thing before my death. Is that not the best way for us to live out our last days in life?"

Jorah thought about it. He was also a dying man. He would not live to see past winter. Yet he would die knowing that Daenerys Targaryen would have the world she deserved. With that thought in mind, he allowed himself to keep being fed.


	53. Epi 9, Ch 2: Grey Worm

***Grey Worm***

The helmets of the Unsullied were slender, faceguards jutting down past their chins. The eye-slits were only wide enough to allow the user to look at a fixed point, with just enough periphery to see someone coming from before them and to the side, but no more than a couple of steps. That was why the Unsullied were trained to be very quick on their feet, reacting with almost lightning speed to face off against any threat.

But the true purpose of the faceguard was not necessarily to protect an Unsullied's face. Unsullied felt so very little pain, thanks to the Wine of Courage. No, the faceguard was shaped with one express purpose.

To focus an Unsullied on a target and propel him forward with the determination to kill or be killed. There was no middle ground. No compromise to be made. One or the other would have to die. Only the one who was superior would be the one who would claim victory this day.

Grey Worm could see a target. He could see a whole fucking lot of targets. Enemies he would kill. On the back of every Unsullied's shield was a tally of how many they had killed in combat. He had last added to it in Meereen, with those two masters he had beheaded with a single stroke of the knife. He was rather proud of that particular strike.

The formation held tight around him, exactly eight hundred seventy-four men march on either side of him. Their particular formation was called "Memebatas esh Jenga" or "March of Eight". An entire force of Unsullied with form eight equal ranks. Just roughly seven thousand were present, so it came out to be eight hundred seventy-five men. He was in the exact center of the front rank.

The formation had one tactical advantage. Depth. The Lannister lines of red armor and tower shields with yellow lions might have stretched far out on either side of them, but their lines were thin, and they were worn out. Tired from over a full day and night of fighting. Dothraki archers had kept peppering them throughout the night, or sneaking up and killing a couple of men before their comrades could react.

If all went according to plan, they would punch through the paper-thin lion. Once they had broken through, the front rank would wheel left and plunge through the gaping wound of the enemy lines while the second rank would wheel right.

"Spears forward!" Grey Worm shouted in his rich Valyrian. "Front rank!"

The spears of the entire front rank lowered pointing right at the enemy. No more than a dozen steps separated the two lines. A few arrows still fell among their ranks and Grey Worm could only imagine that several of his brothers may have fallen. That was their lot in life, to die in battle was greatest honor for Unsullied.

"Half spears!" he commanded, "Second Rank!"

This command brought the spear tips down at an angle, stopping just a half foot over the head of the front rank. Now they were so close that Grey Worm could see the whites of the enemy eyes between their eye-slots.

"Attack!" he shouted and with that, the two lines collided.

The enemy hacked at the Unsullied with swords and tried to push them back with spears. Grey Worm moved quickly, dodging the first blow. The Lannister was a fat man, his stomach spilling out of his armor. It was an easy blow to dodge and with a quick lower thrust, and a slight twist to prevent from knocking into the man to the right of him, he spilled the enemy's guts out of his stomach.

The man in the second rank screamed in rage and thrust his own spear forward. Grey Worm caught it with his shield and jerked his shield down. The spear tip went down, and he plunged his own spear into the man's eye-socket. How the man howled as his brains and eyeball were yanked out by the tip of the Unsullied's spear.

A third man he fought, this one lightly armored. His soft leather jerkin designated him as an archer, and he fought with a dagger in one hand and short sword in the other. The man held both weapons at hip level and was bent at a ready position. Despite the sweat that was pouring down the man's face and into his eyes, he refused to blink.

Grey Worm found that commendable. Yet it did not stop him from lancing forward with his spear. The man parried the spear shaft and slashed with his dagger. However, that was his mistake. He was now slow close that the Commander of the Unsullied rammed the boss of his shield into the archer. The blow stunned the archer for only a second. He was already shaking his head and bringing up his sword, dagger limply hanging from a stunned arm.

Yet he was too slow and Grey Worm's spear slashed upwards, catching him under the chin. The man was jerking on the tip of the spear, his body refusing to believe that his brain had been punctured. With a quick pull back with hand and kick of his foot, the archer collapsed.

With that, Grey Worm found himself completely punctured through the enemy rank. With a quick glance to either side, he saw that his entire front rank had either punctured clear through to the other side, or were finishing off the last soldiers they faced. There was no time though to rest on their laurels.

"Wheel left, Front Rank!" he shouted, lifting his spear forward and turning the tip of the spear to visually signify his order. "Wheel left, second rank!"

With that, the entire front rank swung. It was hard for him to see down the entire length of the line, as the bodies of the Unsullied blocked half his view either direction. So, he used the body of the man to the left, his motion guiding him forward. Soon, he was facing down the entire Lannister line, which was scrambling to refuse its flank, a technical term all Unsullied knew to mean that they were trying to turn their flanks to face the oncoming attack.

Yet he refused to let the sight of them dismay him. No, he was here to kill them all for his Queen. He was to kill them all, and return to Dragonstone covered in blood and have rough sex with Missandei until she could take no more. Missandei of the Island of Naath was a woman who demanded rough sex, and he found it at times more strenuous than battle.

Forward they marched forward and soon they were again in fierce contest with the Lannister soldiers. Unlike the soldiers of the Masters of Yunkai, Astapor or Meereen, the Lannister soon proved themselves to be far tougher than Grey Worm had imagined. Breaking the front line had been relatively easy that facing off against all these warriors who realized now that they were doomed and fought like men who were resigned to death.

The formation that had carried them through the ranks began to come apart, but not because they were being beaten back. No, the success of some Unsullied drove them further into the ranks of the foe, while other Lannisters held firm and refused to budge. Grey Worm and the man to each side of him was among the former, and their skill drove them forward. The eunuch to the right was Purple Cur and the one to the left was Red Shit.

Purple Cur jumped over a fallen Lannister and attacked the next man in line. Grey Worm would have loved to watch Purple Cur take down his enemy, as he was a massive brute, but he was faced with a tricky enemy. The Lannister wore no helmet, and one eye was blind, a massive gash running down his face from an old wound.

Grey Worm jabbed high, low, high again. Left and right he swung his spear, hoping to catch his foe across the torso. But the man parried each blow, tossing his blade from hand to hand to catch each blow with a different hand and Grey Worm could not see much difference in strength between the two hands. Red Shit speared a Lannister and tossed him sideways, the man falling between the two combatants.

"I'll give you credit, you cockless cunt!" the one-eyed warrior said, hacking forward. Grey Worm caught the blade and stabbed forward, only to have the man grab it by his other hand. "You and your shit brothers are good fighters. But there is only a few thousand of you. You will not be enough to defeat the entire Lannister army."

"We no need to," Grey Worm replied, his Westerosii still shaky. "We bring friends."

"So you do speak our speech?" One-Eyed asked and he tried to throw Grey Worm back.

"I have good teacher," he replied with pride. Yet he kept pushing himself and now they were in a pushing. Whomever succeeded would be in a far better position to land a killing blow.

"Then I hope you don't mind if I tell you I am going to spit in your eye, do you cunt?" he asked.

"What-" Grey Worm asked, not understanding what he was saying. Yet next thing he knew, thick wads of spittle flew in his eyes. The sudden blinding caused him to recoil ever so slightly, and it was enough for One-Eyed to scream in victory and push hard.

He tripped backwards over a Lannister he had just killed before. He fell hard to the ground and next thing he knew, pain filled his shield arm. He tried to attack with his spear but he grunted as an iron-shod boot fell on it. He could barely see between the spittle that blinded him, but the man had just pulled his sword from Grey Worm's arm and tossed it to the left hand.

He was twisting around to plunge down when his neck exploded in blood. One-Eyed grabbed his neck and staggered sideways, where another Unsullied further down rammed his spear into him. Grey Worm took Red Shit's proffered hand and allowed himself to be pulled up.

"Your arm," the man commented, inkling with his head toward the bleeding shield arm. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Grey Worm replied, reaching up and wiping out the spittle from his eyes. An Unsullied only concerned themselves with loss of limbs that would hinder their fighting. The blade hadn't even hit bone and even though bleeding, wouldn't hamper his performance too much. He bent down to grab his spear. "I am fine. We must continue on. If we could….."

His words were interrupted as Red Shit's stomach exploded with a sword blade that emerged from it. Before he fell, Grey Worm was up and he plunged his spear, directly into the killer's stomach, paying him in kind. Yet even as the man screamed in pain, he grabbed the spear shaft in a death grip and raised his sword to deliver a counterblow. Grey Worm could feel the pressure he was putting on the spear so he let it go and the man collapsed forward, his sword going wide. The spear drove through the man as the butt hit the ground.

Grey Worm left the man on his weapon, instead picking up Red Shit's spear and continuing onwards. Purple Cur had waded into a swarm of enemies and even now two spearmen were driving him down into the ground as a swordsmen plunged his sword down into his face.

He could see the resistance stiffening. Third and Fourth ranks would have pushed forward and spread out, facing off any reserves that the Lannisters may have hiding in reserve. But they would need additional help to punch open a hole wide enough for the horde to race through without fear of being cut off. They were just waiting for Grey Worm to signal when he assumed it was okay.

"Black Rat," he shouted to the man to his left. "Continue forward. I go to collect the fifth and sixth ranks. I must also observe the battlefield as a whole."

"Yes sir," the Unsullied pounded his fist and onwards they pushed.

Grey Worm turned and ran at a good run. There were bodies of soldiers every foot of the way. There were more Lannister dead and wounded than Unsullied, but there were far more than he liked. Now that Grey Worm was back far enough that he could overlook the entire line, he looked back, and found that there were gaps forming the line and in many places, Unsullied were being singled out and encircled by the superior Lannister forces.

He turned back and redoubled his speed. He had to get back and get men pushed forward. Unsullied were not much about taking initiative, despite all their fierceness. It was a reason they had been handled so roughly in Meereen by the Sons of the Harpy. The assassins had been original, not bound by routine and quick to change to situations. The Unsullied had not been. He needed to teach initiative to the Uncut if they were ever to replenish their numbers and win this war.

Grey Worm turned his head to find that the third and fourth ranks of Unsullied had stopped advancing deeper into the hollow of the enemy lines. Indeed, they were spreading out into a long continuous line. Why had the attack stopped? He needed it to continue!

Turning, he ran the hundred yards to talk to one of them. He approached the line swiftly and when his legs were just barely beginning to feel the burn, he grabbed an Unsullied, a small warrior that didn't come quiet to his chin.

"Why have you stopped the advance?" he demanded. "We need you to punch further in."

"Horses approaching," the man explained and pointed with his spear.

Grey Worm looked, and he saw a long line of horses thundering across the hollow towards them. Where the fuck had they come from? He had seen the entire contingent of Lannister knights fall in battle. Were they Dothraki? No….he could see the glint off their armor.

"Prepare to receive horse!" he commanded, although her knew that what they were doing. "I will send help to you. Hold fast!"

He turned and ran towards the other ranks. They had stopped at the initial breach. Why hadn't the Third or Fourth Rank commanders sent word for them to come assist them? He looked to the right attack and saw that it had stalled and was actually being pushed back slowly by the defenders.

He had three fronts and three separate battles to send men to and only four ranks left to work with. And the Lannisters had just thrown a nasty surprise his way. Battle was fluid and one was supposed to be just as fluid.

"Damn!" he snapped in High Valyrian.

This was about to get far more interesting.


	54. Epi 9, Ch 3: Dickon Tarly

***Dickon Tarly***

The massive wave of horsemen pounded across the field between the shrunken lines of the Lannister soldiers. The western line had opened up for them, and had run to reinforce the northern and southern lines. Seven hundred knights, swords drawn and spears lowered. Dickon could feel the pounding of the hooves like thunder, only the thunder was rolling through his entire body.

He was sweating, his eyes wide. He clenched the hilt of his sword with a death grip and he really felt like shitting. He had only ever heard about the great deeds of warriors on the field. Never had any mentioned the fear that turned his bowls to liquid or the strong stench of the battlefield. He had not realized that men shit themselves at death, but now he knew, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

Dickon found himself not thinking about the glory of war. Only the stench and blood.

Now here he was, riding hard at the head of the massive charge of knights. There was Ser Lawren the Buck-toothed from Cider Hall with his personal sigil of a massive letter S of red on a yellow field, a massive morningstar hanging from his side. Ser Pul the Red of Goldengrove, in his completely blood-red painted armor and a massive broadsword he carried in both hands, using knees to steer his horse. Ser Gallan of Bandallon along the coast, wielding two single-handed axes that he twirled in his hands as they road.

These were all great men with great deeds to support their knight hoods. They had earned feats of valor on the field of battle, such as Ser Stephen the Eunuch, who bested the twelve hedge knights that had been molesting Three Towers at the mouth of the Whispering Sound. Ser Jandice had traveled throughout the Seven Kingdoms, defeating robbers and bandits near every city and village.

What did Dickon have to bolster his own knighthood? Simply a name? He had fought well at the Prince's Pass, that was true. But not nearly what he believed all the great warriors could do. Was it not Ser Barren Gel of Longtable that had fell three giants beyond the Wall? There he was, Ser Barren carrying his Valyrian steel sword _Giants Foe_.

These thoughts he pushed from his mind as he checked his horse, guiding it around the wagons that had been pulled into a wide circle. He ran past massive scorpions that had crews cheering them. Yet more than one kept their eyes fixed on the sky. What were they watching for? Massive eagles?

No, he chided himself. Dragons.

Around the wagons they rode and on the other side they formed up, a long line of heavily armored knights. And on the other side of the pre-organized field of contest was their foe. A long line of sable shields and spears aimed straight at them.

"Hold together!" he shouted. He had been given command of the knights by his father. Dickon felt that this was meant to bolster his own confidence. "Archers loose arrows when you are in range."

A few of the knights had also mastered archery and very soon, about a dozen knights were firing arrows as they rode, skillfully striking the shields and flesh of the Unsullied. Yet the men held firm, sidestepping over every fallen comrade and standing on them as if they were nothing more than rocks that was on the field.

Dickon screamed as they slammed hard into the Unsullied line. The hit caused the spearmen to take three steps back, but they braced, thrusting with their own spears even as knights swung down with weapons or pushed onwards, using the massive bulks of their armored horses to bull past the mercenaries.

Dickon slashed downwards, parrying a spear thrust and stabbed at the helmet. The blade was turned by the sword hit, but his face turned enough that he hurried swept up and over, cutting through the back of the man's neck and dropping him.

Shouts and curses and horses screamed. A few horses fell, pinning rider to the ground. The Unsullied would not advance to finish off a pinned foe, instead holding the line. Dickon was impressed by their discipline, not even breaking ranks to kill fallen foes to keep the line solid and firm. Yet the discipline only held them in place for so long, and at a command, the Unsullied advanced backwards step by step.

Dickon held up his sword and shouted, "Hold and rally!"

The Unsullied and the knights broke contact and the sable clad warriors continued to retreat, facing the knights, never looking away. Even as Dickon watched the Unsullied were joined by a fresh new rank of Unsullied. Now, they began advancing towards the knights, spears extended.

"Ser Jandice," he asked the knight next to him. "Ride to the end of the line, and take a hundred knights. When the enemy comes close enough, try to get around their rear and hit them from the back."

Ser Jandice scanned the line and his head viewed the entire battlefield before them. "There won't be much room between the enemy flank and the Lannister's rear," he commented.

"Make it work, Ser," Dickon commanded. He didn't need to argue the plan, he needed it carried out. Jandice nodded and rode hard along the front of the line. Dickon was rounding up his shoulders, waiting for the right moment.

Then it came. The back line of the southern line turned and charged into the flank and rear of the Unsullied's left flank. The Unsullied line, hit by the unexpected assault, bent their flank to refuse it. But the confusion of the new assault was just what Dickon was looking for.

"Charge!" he shouted and forward they roared again and hit the enemy. Reinforced, the Unsullied held more firmly, and a dozen more knights fell to thrust of blades and a little more number of horses fell. The knights that had been pinned earlier were up of their feet now, advancing as best as they could, swords and axes raised.

One Unsullied lost his arm with a clean stroke of the blade but Dickon was surprised when instead of falling, the Unsullied tried to bash his horse with his shield. Pulling on the reins, his horse reared on its hindlegs and with a scream of fury, it brought it hooves down and dropped shield and man to the ground.

Then, the flanking force hit the rear of the Unsullied forces and organization began to collapse. The knights broke the Unsullied into two parts, and caught between Reach knights and Lannister footmen, the Unsullied were cut down in rapid order. Many Lannisters and more knights fell, but eventually the Unsullied were turning and running from the field, swinging their shields behind their heads to protect themselves as they retreated.

Dickon pushed onwards, cutting down any stranglers that did not keep up with the main body. Soon, the entire army had been stabilized and the breach had been plugged. The sword hung heavily in his hand as he called a halt at the breach itself, the numbers of corpses and dead and dying simply staggering to him. The entire front part of the army shooting out toward the forest was a carpet of dead and dying horses and men and arrows were in such great abundance he almost imagined they were a field of white daisies.

Everywhere he looked, he saw the Targaryens retreating towards the smoldering Kingswood. Unsullied on foot and Dothraki on horses. Behind them marched the fifty thousand men of the Reach, singing songs of war.

How many had he killed? Dickon wasn't sure, but it had been at least six. He looked at his knights and saw they were fewer in number. Looking back, he could see almost a hundred knights and an equal number of horses lying on the ground. Even as he looked back, he saw his father riding his grey warhorse toward him, Ser Jaime Lannister riding at his side.

"Well done, my son!" Randyll praised his youngest son. "Now, we shall pursue them into the woods."

"Is that wise?" Jaime asked. "In the forest, anything can happen to you. If they should rally…."

"That is why we must push on, Ser Jaime," Randyll replied, not looking at the other man. He was already focused on the task at hand and the goal he foresaw. "Besides, you shouldn't worry Ser Jaime. We have come to rescue you. Just let your men rest and the Reach will show you how fighting is done."

Dickon saw the Queen's brother biting off a scorching remark but let it rest. Yet, Ser Jaime had made a valid point. In those woods, horses would do little good. It would be best for men on foot, men who could easily move among the foliage.

"My knights will do little good in there," he replied, "What would you like me to do?"

"Stay here," Randyll said. "You are correct about your knights. They fought well as did you, and you let your old father do the rest."

Randyll held out his hand and Dickon did as well, grabbing each other by the forearm. "Follow me in an hour," he said and with that, he set off, riding at the head of his forces. Dickon sidestepped his horse as did all his knights to allow the foot soldiers to pass by. The line was almost two thousand men abreast, each rank three men deep. Twenty-five lines, marching at a good pace, each rank separated by thirty-five yards, enough to react to any situation while keeping in close support of another rank. Once in the Kingswood, the foothills stopped shortly within, so the lines could be stretched.

"Your father is a cunt," Ser Bronn said from behind him.

Dickon turned on him, his eyes narrowed. "My father is a great man!" he began heat rising as he defended his father, "He defeated Robert Baratheon at Ashford. He…."

"Aye," Bronn agreed, "He is a great man, but he is still a cunt. It comes with the territory of being a great man."

"Well, let's get our army organized in some semblance and begin clearing the dead," Ser Jaime said. His piercing blue eye fixed on Dickon. "Come ride with me, young Rickon."

"Dickon," he corrected to which Bronn started laughing. Dickon rolled his eyes. For fuck sake! Can't people just get over his name?

"Stand down," he turned to the knights, "Ser Lawren, you have command until I return."

The knight nodded once and the men began to dismount and allow their horses to grass in the field. Dickon guided his horse to follow Jaime, as Bronn followed at a close distance. Dickon wasn't sure what Ser Bronn was doing, always so close to Ser Jaime, yet he didn't feel like asking.

Maesters rooved over the field with Silent Sisters that followed the army, tending to the wounded. The maesters and other healers would look a man over and his wounds, deciding what man could survive and what man was destined to die. His eyes focused on a maester that was tending to an Unsullied that had his leg chopped off. The man seemed to understand what was being done and allowed the maester to proceed.

"Tell me," Jaime asked, guiding his horse towards a group of archers that were standing around, or dropping to the ground and falling asleep on the spot. "This is your second battle?"

"Yes," Dickon replied.

"How have you found it?" Jaime asked.

"What?" Dickon asked, not understanding the question.

"How have you found battle?" Jaime clarified. Dickon found the salmon pink robe he had falling over his back, spotted with blood splatters, rather odd for a knight. Was that flowers embroidered? "Has it cracked up to everything the tales have told you?"

"Oh yes!" he said, trying to sound ass convincing and brave as he possible could. "Dornishman and Unsullied are both worthy fighters, but the honor I gained in their deaths means that these battles will be written in the annuals of my family's history."

"What a load of a shit," Ser Bronn interrupted his monologue. "You father isn't here and you don't have to impress him. Neither of us will think any less of a man whose name is supposed to be thrust into a woman."

Dickon flushed at the jab at his name and he saw the Lord Lannister roll his eyes in annoyance. He must have gotten use to the man's crudeness. Or perhaps Ser Jaime understood what was meant by this. Nothing mean spirited or harsh.

"I…" he struggled to find the right words. "It's….well….different."

"Different, how so?" Jaime asked. He stopped himself to call to a few weary soldiers to gather around a certain lord that Dickon didn't know.

"Well," he shrugged uncomfortably. "No one ever talks about the smell."

"The smell?" Bronn asked, raising an eyebrow. "You mean the shit? Didn't you know that men shit themselves when they die? Didn't they teach you that in fancy lad school?"

Dickon shook his head and Bronn shrugged both shoulders himself. "I knew it when I was five," he replied.

The sound of combat rose from the woods and Dickon turned back. He stared at the woods, half the army already passed into the smoldering borders, enclosed by the trees. He felt ill at ease, despite the victory he was certain was already to be gained.

"Your father will be just fine," Ser Jaime assured him, "He's an ornery man, and I am sure his crabbiness will cause blades to break."

"People will foul dispositions general have that ability," Bronn agreed.

"Oh, it's not that," Dickon said. His eyes flicked to the sky. "I'm more of surprised that the Mother of Dragons hasn't shown up yet. I was expecting 'Fire and Blood'. That's the Targaryen words, after-all."

"Just be grateful you haven't seen a dragon," Ser Jaime said, his voice deadly serious. "Dragons in the hands of Targaryens is no laughing matter. Her father was obsessed with wildfire and burning people alive. Just imagine the wrath of a single dragon."

"I'd rather not," Dickon said. "I saw the destruction the dragons wrought on our wagon train of food. It was…."

"Wait," Ser Jaime said, his one good hand reaching out and grabbing him. Dickon handed realized that Jaime had ended up on his right side. "All the food is gone? Are you sure that it was dragons?"

"Yes," Dickon said. He described to them the devastation he saw. The massive columns of smoke that rose high in the air. He even told him about the man he had found melted into the collapsed wall of the wagon. The sheer size the fire had burned and the bodies that had dissolved as they had marched past. "That's why we got here so quickly," he concluded. "We doubled the pace so we could get here as fast as we could. To get revenge on Daenerys Targaryen."

"Why would she burn the food?" Bronn asked.

"Do you think she thought it was the gold?" Jaime asked, "Or did she know, and she wanted to starve the people?"

"That's a fucking sick thing to do!" the sell-sword turned knight said, his face twisting into a scowl.

"Which begs the question again," Dickon said, "If she was willing to burn the food, why not the people here? She could have destroyed you by yourself than come crashing down on us on the road. I mean, looking at the forest it looks like what we saw along the train."

Jaime said nothing, turning to face the Kingswood. He stood there for a long minute, and Dickon wondered what thoughts were going through the Kingslayers' mind. What thoughts darkened his mind? He stood there like a statue that was of a bygone age of glory.

"Bronn," Jaime turned to him, "Ride off to the scorpions. Tell them to keep their eyes fixed on the sky towards the forest."

"Alright," Bronn said and rode off at a gallop towards them.

"What is it?" Dickon asked, "What do you think?"

Jaime turned to him, and his eyes were filled with dread. Dread that made every high feeling of victory and joyful moment at staying alive seem pitiful. The moments seemed to turn to ash in Dickon's mouth and Ser Jaime hadn't even _said_ anything!

"Return to your knights," Jaime told him, "And prepare to ride like hell."


	55. Epi 9, Ch 4: Dany

***Daenerys***

The thick trees surrounded Daenerys on either side of the Roseroad. She felt it was an odd name, as no roses grew near the road, at least, not any that _she_ could see at least. No, she did see a ton of trees, ancient oaks that rose in majesty on either side of her. They could have called it the Woodroad, or something like that. The Forest Road maybe? At least when it reached the Kingswood.

Perhaps she would rename it the Queenswood after this.

Viserion, Rhaegal and Drogon looked like snakes, standing up on their hindlegs as they grabbed the trees to either side of them. They craned their necks, their heads cocked towards the sounds that rose in an approaching wave. Viserion was the closest to her, and she could barely see his massive torso moving with the rhythm of breathing. He was like a cat that had heard a mouse, frozen as if doing so would keep the mouse from spotting until he pounced.

"They are approaching, Great Khaleesi," Aggo remarked. He was one of the three bloodriders of her late husband Khal Drogo. He had sworn loyalty to her after she had risen from Drogo's fire. He had ridden southeast while they were in the Red Waste to find help. He had arrived in Meereen shortly after the Siege of Meereen, offering a wild tale of his exploits in the south.

"Yes Aggo," she replied. She had no fear, no trembling threatened to undo her solemnity. She was Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men. She had faced death so many times and emerged from the flames so often that it was an old trick to her. "We shall wait just a little longer."

Varys had sent all his little birds instructions to send words to Daenerys. Somehow, the ravens had found her, and she had used it to find the loot train. She had burned everything to the ground. She refused to allow the gold of Highgarden to arrive to help Queen Cersei's war effort against her. A few brave men had fired their bows at her, but she had avoided them with ease.

She could have crushed the Lannister forces with ease. She had burned the bridges near Ashford and Grassy Vale to slow their advance. At any time during the march, she could have swooped down with Drogon, or Viserion or even Rhaegal and burned them to a smoldering ash heap. However, she had heard that the Reach army was approaching the same route, and she wanted to end the war in a single blow.

Now they were both here, and by her own command, they had lured the Reach soldiers into the Kingswood. Now, she would be able to crush both armies at a single go, and such a massive loss would put to shame her ancestors triumph at the Field of Fire three centuries ago.

"Khaleesi, may I speak on a personal matter?" Aggo asked.

"Always," she said turning to the tall rider. "You are Blood of my Blood."

"I saw the saddle that the Half-Man made for you," her blood rider said. "Even the Dothraki were saddles on their horses, and you know how we value them as family. I wish you had brought it with you. It would make me feel easier to know you were safe."

"My dear Aggo," Daenerys said, putting a hand on his chiseled biceps. "I am safe with my dragons! They never have and never will drop me. I am their mother and they will protect me with their lives. Yet you know how strong these dragons are and how tough their hide is."

"You are still flesh and blood," Aggo shook his head. "It would go against my heart to see both you and Khal Drogo both die."

"You will never see it," she promised him.

No, she turned back to the battle that was raging closer and closer to her. The Dothraki had been commanded along with the Unsullied to continually move back through the woods, keeping just within sight of their enemies. Hiding up trees were Dothraki screamers who had lost their horses or were willing to ambush the Westerosii. All they needed to do was wait.

So many had died of her brave warriors, but when she burned them all to a crisp, their sacrifice would not be in vain.

Truthfully, the reason she had not brought the saddle had everything to do with her solid and immense trust she had in her dragons. There was also much to be said about the fact that Tyrion had acted like a little bitch and had resigned from his position as Hand. He said it was fact she didn't trust him with the truth of his niece.

Well, why had he been so offended by it? Hells, she was just a girl. She knew his reputation with women, had he been fucking his niece and that was why he was so upset about it? She was convinced he must have had a hand in her defeats in Dorne and the Blackwater. Why else would he be so defensive?

The Dothraki were now getting closer, she could see their horses now at a mere hundred yards off. She could now clearly hear the shouts of warriors and the clash of steel on steel. Now came the time. The time she had been waiting for. The time for fire and blood.

She walked over to Rhaegal, many of his dorsal scales having turned almost black. But his neck and head and many spots still showed his emerald green scales. A few bronze ones still could be seen as clear as day. He stood between his brothers, sniffing the air, his nostrils flat against his face.

"Rhaegal, kneel," she commanded his in High Valyrian. Yet Rhaegal didn't, staring at the sky and sniffing. "Rhaegal, kneel!"

Rhaegal turned his head and blinked twice at Daenerys. She put her hands on her hips, and started tapping her foot, raising an eyebrow. Rhaegal turned his head and snorted once in her face, hot wind blowing her hair around her and forcing her to squint.

" _Rhaegal_ ," she stressed his name and put disapproval into her voice. "Don't give me attitude."

Rhaegal shook his massive head and raised it above her head, puffing a cloud of steam. So, that was going to be how it was, was it? He was like a moody young man who refused to listen to anyone. Being Queen had taught her much about how to deal with moody people.

"Fine then," she shook her head. "I was going to ride you into battle and we were going to have great adventures. They were even going to write epic songs about us riding into battle. But, I guess I'll Drogon today."

She turned her back on Rhaegal and began walking towards the black dragon. Drogon barely fit between the trees, having snapped off the top level of foliage that spanned above and across the width of the road in in a far wider radius than his two smaller brothers.

"At least Drogon loves me," Daenerys called behind her. "Loves me more than you."

With a massive thump, a massive emerald green tail came slamming down just feet from her face. Hiding her smile, she kept a mask of sternness as she turned around to see Rhaegal lowering his face towards her. His lip was curled, and he was growling at her, the sound rumbling through her body. She could see the massive teeth that were as wide as her hand was long.

"Look," she held up both hands defensively, "I know you are still smarting over your captivity in Meereen, and you weren't the one at fault. But, if you don't want me to ride you, I will ride Drogon. There's no need to feel bad. It's only natural for the biggest dragon to feel the most love for his mother."

Rhaegal bent down and laid his head on the ground. His eyes….damn, if he didn't look like a little puppy at the moment, wanting affection. Daenerys heart nearly broke at Rhaegal's surrendering to a desire to be the center of his mother's attention. If even for a small bit.

"Alright," she said in mock exacerbation, "If you insist."

She climbed Rhaegal's back, feeling the hard muscles and equally hard scales. She had once been accused by Missandei of favoring Drogon over the other dragons, to which Daenerys had laughed. That was utterly ludicrous. She loved all her dragons equally.

Yet she had come to wonder if she did indeed prefer Drogon over the others. Drogon, the trouble dragon, that had caused her grief in Meereen by eating sheep and burning little children. She had gone out of her way to always ride him. Helped that he had come to her rescue.

She promised to do better about spending time with _all_ of her children. Once the throne was one, she promised to each day go flying to a different part of Westeros every day. How far could she travel in a single day? It was an intriguing question.

But it was one that could wait. Now, she rose. She didn't even have to speak a command to the dragons. Each one seemed to instinctively know it was time to fly. They jumped up, their massive legs propelling them three fourths of the way up the trees in a single bound, which must have at the very least fifteen feet.

Their claws tore into the oaks, cracking them with the strength of their grips. Then, she could feel Rhaegal's body coiling and pressing herself against his neck, she felt his leap forward and up. Branches broke around her, and she felt a few rebounding off her back. She winced as a sharp broken one scratched her shoulder near the bottom, and she felt the skin slightly tear. Warm droplets flowed down her back, despite her heavy black clothing.

And with that, Rhaegal's wings flapped open, expanding as they caught a breeze that was coming from the north. Now that she was above the trees, she leaned back just enough that she could see that massive woods beneath her and the pure sky. No clouds covered this glorious day.

The sun was still rising to the east and with a sharp turn, Rhaegal pointed himself to the west, his two brothers falling into formation around him. Then, with a mental command from her, they began to fly westward.

She could never have described the connection between her and her children. They seemed to understand her thoughts and intents. She did have to verbally communicate from time to time. Yet most of the time, no words were needed to be spoken.

Viserys had once told her a story about the ancient Targaryens. According to him, they had once had a mental link with the dragons. Telepathic, he called it, although she had never understood the true definition of the word. True mental links, he said, had been a gift of such old and great Targaryens such as Aegon and his sister-wives.

The idea had thrilled her. Far more than his fingering her. He had been telling her that as he had shoved his fingers inside of her. She shuddered at the memory, remembering that Magister Illyrio Mopatis who had stopped this vile action.

Yet, the story had always stuck with her and she felt that it was true, no matter the circumstances surrounding the telling. She had always felt connected to her dragons at such an instinctual level, how could it be anything but true?

She looked down, now high above the battlefield. She could see the vast stretches that she had burned the day before. Half of the army was into the actual still standing forest and the rest were marching through the burned outer-edge. She could see another force rallying behind this army. That must have been the Lannisters, while all these were the Reach.

She would deal with the Lannister army last. They had been fighting for their queen! Could she really blame them for being loyal, something she demanded as well of her own people? But these traitors, they had to be dealt with nothing less than fury.

Drogon bellowed his fiery rage. Viserion followed suit and it was Rhaegal who last roared. His whole body trembled as he flew, the efforts of his roars seeming to pass through his entire body. She felt it just as well, and her bones seemed to chatter from the intensity of the vocalization of his raw, untamed power.

She glanced down and whole section of the traitors forces seemed to halt and she saw many faces turn up towards the sky and see the dragons. She flew them low and fast, sweeping over the heads to the doomed and past the Lannister forces. They looked astonished and she saw many on horses, knights and commanders who looked astonished by what they saw. She also saw something else as well, wagons and another thing she couldn't quiet name. The Lannisters panicked and scurried into a wide circle around the wagons and whatever they were.

Well, she'd come back and deal with them. With a pull to the left, Daenerys turned Rhaegal around in a wide loop, passing over the carpets of dead bodies that carpeted the battlefield. They swung out to the low-lying foot hills and turned as they reached the edge. She made a tight turn with Rhaegal, and his brothers followed suit, flanking him on either side. Then, lined straight up, she flew hard and fast.

The entire width of the rear portion of the Reach's army was exposed, and they would be able to strafe the entire width of it. Soldiers were already breaking ranks, fleeing and running for their lives. Hundreds were running, those who were smart enough to realize what was about to happen. Unfortunately for them, they looked like small insects.

They were cockroaches. And how did one deal with cockroaches?

"Dracarys," she commanded.

Three massive jets of flame spewed out and down on the soldiers beneath her flying dragons. They flew low, their fire scorching man and beast alive. Hundreds of men, no, thousands vanished in a single jet of fire. They were able to spew fire for a good ten seconds each go, and hundreds of men were either flash burned or ran around, their armor cooking them.

If one looked closely enough, as Daenerys did, she could see that the fires were not completely similar. Drogon's fire had a black tint at the very edge. Viserion had golden flames at the very edge. Rhaegal had a green. Most people wouldn't have been able to see it, as they were at the receiving end of it. Daenerys however had the luxury of seeing the tinted color.

They came to the edge of the army across the foothills on the northern side and saw a massive horde of Dothraki waiting. They cheered as she flew over them. This was the remaining fifty thousand she had held back in reserve. Now, as she made her tight turn, they roared forward, flying over the hills as if their hooves had wings. Their goal was to hit the Lannister forces and overrun them if they could. It was another reason why she was holding out on making the attack on them.

As she looked out across the field as they came for another run, she pressed their flight closer to the forest. Soldiers were panicked, not knowing which way to go. If they ran to the west, they would run into the fires that burned their comrades. If they went east, there was Dothraki still there. They didn't see the horde pounding over the hills.

She would remove the need to answer the question from them.

If everything was going according to plan, she would be able to continue burning the traitors with fire as her Dothraki and Unsullied resumed their attack from within the forest. She would burn down the forest around them if she had to.

As she saw the massive flames that rose from the fields and the burning torches that were men as they died, she felt aroused. Yes, this was exactly what made her hot and bothered. She enjoyed the sight of fire and men burning. Not as much as she had heard her father did. He did it cruelly. But, there was eroticism in seeing her enemies burn before her.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. Now was _not_ the time for sex or sex-filled thoughts. No, now was the time to burn the traitors to the ground. Her dragons let loose, scorching the earth and hundreds of more men. Men ran into the forest in massive droves, and Daenerys pointed a finger down where the Roseroad entered the Kingswood. Drogon wheeled, being on her left and swept down the massive road, letting loose jets of flame that bathed road and trees that surrounded it.

Men screamed and burned. A few brave souls let loose arrows but they all missed their mark. Many of the arrows were caught in the fires and burned in the inferno while the others were so wild that they missed the mark by a wide margin. The entire outside of the woods was soon abandoned as the soldiers of the Reach ran for the forest for refuge. The last man she burned on this run she saw had abandoned all his gear and had run for the hills.

She took sexual pleasure in burning him to ash as she flew past. At the edge of the hills, she turned around, and this time, she aimed to fly straight over the forest and set it aflame. A cruel smile touched her lips as she savored the flames and smoke that rose in giant columns over the battlefield.


	56. Epi 9, Ch 5: Jaime

***Jaime***

The explosive fire that ripped apart the far off army of the Reach caused Jaime's eyes to widen. The sheer width of the flames he could see even where he was. The thought of all those men burning filled his imagination for half a second and he froze in place. What could they do against such raw destructive power?

 _Burn them all!_ The voice….that damned voice! The voice that haunted his every dream and always lingered in the back of his mind. _Burn them all!_

 _Get a hold of yourself, man!_ He berated himself. Now was not the time to panic. His army was running into a tight circle and he heard a man weep openly.

"Get a hold of yourself!" he snapped, riding along the back of his men. "We will mourn the fallen later. Now, we must prepare ourselves."

"How are we supposed to kill _that?_ " a soldier asked, his entire body trembling. "There are three of them!"

"And we have a dozen scorpions," he retorted. Even as he spoke, several long black bolts lanced forth, flying through the air, aiming at the closest of the three dragons. It swerved effortlessly out of the way, despite its massive frame.

He turned back and rode off to where Osmund Kettleblack and Preston Greenfield rode side by side near the back of the south-facing portion of the massive circle. He needed them to split up, each man taking a different portion of the line. As he rode, he came across Bronn, who was sitting on his black horse, his face pale.

"Come along Bronn," he called, riding past him, "I need you to take command of the scorpions. Tell them to wait until the massive fuckers are coming near us."

Bronn said nothing, but just stared at the dragons. Jaime slowed Tommen and looked back at him. Bronn did not say anything, but straightened himself and turned to face Jaime. His face was….strange. Jaime couldn't tell what the emotion was he was seeing.

"Didn't you hear me Bronn?" Jaime asked. "I need you to take command of the scorpions.

"Fuck that," Bronn said, his voice hollow. "I'm leaving."

"Leaving?' Jaime asked, frowning. "You can't leave! We are middle of a fucking battle."

"I told you," Bronn said, his voice gaining strength. "If we saw a dragon, that would be the end of our arraignment. My life means more to me than yours, cunt. So, fuck off with your army."

And with that, Bronn turned his horse and began riding hard off for the west. Jaime looked at him, his eyes wide. Bronn was abandoning him? What about his fucking castle and wife he was always going on about? Wasn't gold the most important thing to him?

"Come back here, you fucking coward!" Jaime roared and spurring his horse, began to give chase.

He pursued as close as he could, but the sell-sword was faster than he was. Bronn was already past the wagons and scorpions and approaching the western lines. The bastard was going to run down the men who were bracing for whatever was coming.

Jaime was entering the scorpions when one of the crew shouted, "It's coming straight for us!"

Jaime turned and saw a massive green dragon flying right towards them. It was….rather horrifying to see. On its back, he could see a woman riding it. Daenerys Targaryen. The Mother of Dragons. She was riding her dragon past the scorpions right towards where Bronn was riding!

"Bronn!" he bellowed, "Behind you…"

But even if the sell-sword could have heard the words, it was too late. A massive jettison of flame roared down and Jaime's eyes caught the horrifying image of Bronn and his horse going down in a flash of flame. The fire streaked across the ground and caught the back of the line and the head of the dragon turned. The flames streaked across a good thirty yards of the line, men burning and screaming. Many men still were standing, dancing around with flames engulfing them.

 _Burn them in their houses!_

Bronn….was dead. The shock of it was only enlarged by the amount of burning men there were. He barely had time to process just how effortlessly they had been wiped away when a voice shouted in alarm.

"Dothraki! Dothraki!"

Jaime turned to see a massive wave of Dothraki crowning the foothills and pounding down of the Lannister army. They were so very close…..and even as he watched them, the dragon sped down the northern bulge of the circle and let loose, burning a hundred men at once. Even as they burned, the Dothraki were among them, pounding through the gap.

At once the line began to dissolve. Men either ran in fear or fought for their lives. The gap spread wide as the Dothraki Screamers poured through, loosing arrows or striking down the heavy footmen. The southern line did an about face and with Gwen Westerling at the head, Sers Preston and Osmund at their head, charging forward.

"No!' Jaime shouted, turning and riding towards them. "No! What are you doing?"

"Our line is broken," Lord Westerling said, "We go to plug the gap."

"By exposing our backs?" Jaime demanded, waving his sword frantically in the air in emphasis. "They are going to swarm around our back and hit you!"

"Imposs-" Westerling began, but he collapsed as an arrow struck him in the throat. He slumped in his saddle, gagging as blood froth from his mouth and oozed around the arrow that stuck out the back of his neck.

Jaime watched as thousands of Dothraki began to circle the sides of the circle, loosing arrows at the defenders. The Lannisters had no more arrows to respond with, but Jaime knew the real dangers was what was going to happen.

"Turn around!" he shouted, riding down the line, "Turn around! The Dothraki are about to fuck you in the asses! Turn the fuck around!"

Many men began to turn as ordered but many didn't, unable to hear his command. Jaime watched with desperation as the Dothraki finished encircling the army and began to slam into the rear of the now exposed line. The line began to be thrown into chaos, as men tried to face both this threat and the one that was swarming through their lines.

"Rally the men!" Osmund shouted to Jaime, "We'll take care of the breach."

"How the fuck do you think you'll be able to?" Jaime demanded.

Yet even as he spoke, the eastern line parted to allow hundreds of knights to charge through. Dickon Tarly was at the head, sword held high, his knights shouting war cries as they aimed like an arrow at the breach. The Dothraki were surprised as they were taken from the side and hard fighting began, as the heavily armored knights cut through the Dothraki like a hot knife through a wheel of cheese.

"Go, go!" he shouted and Osmund and Preston charged forward.

Now, Jaime just had to stabilize the line. Taking a deep breath, he rode hard down the line, rallying men. Here and there, a Dothraki had managed to get past them, but Jaime was there, slashing with _Widow's Wail_. Two men he took down easily, striking off heads. The ones not so easily taken he had help from men that rallied around him. Slowly, he stabilized the line, but each time he had one section stabilized, another was beginning to break.

So back and forth he rode, for what seemed like hours, even though it couldn't have been more than ten minutes. His sword was up to the hilt in blood when finally it seemed that he had succeeded in plugging the gap. He turned back to see that the knights had done their job well. Some semblance of order was restored and a new line had been organized, although now it was much smaller.

"You have command here," he said to a young noble who had shit himself. The young man nodded but Jaime didn't wait. He turned back and rode towards the scorpions. He looked up and the dragon was coming straight for them.

No. _Daenerys Targaryen_ was coming straight for them. Bolts launched themselves at her, but the dragon kept swerving past them. He watched it happen, unable to stop it. She swept through the center of them, and launched fire and death upon them. Out of twelve scorpions, ten went up in flame. Their hopes were all but shattered as he saw this and his heart nearly gave out at the sight.

She swung back around and let loose flames along that southern line. He watched the entire line seem to dissolve and the Dothraki begin to pour through. Yet he saw many Dothraki also burning and the confusion the flaming bodies were causing was the only thing that stemmed the flow.

But the line was broken. The Dothraki were pouring in from the south now, and all semblance of order was lost. All his hard work was gone. And the flames greedily licked the sky.

 _Burn them all! Burn them all!_

"We are truly fucked!" Dickon Tarly said, riding up with his knights in tow. They charged forward without him, and slammed into the Dothraki. However, the sheer confusion was causing more of the army to melt away. Sometimes quiet literally.

"That we are," he said and as he turned, he saw the dragon coming straight for the knights. No, no! If they were all killed, there would be nothing left to save the army. "Ride!" he bellowed and charged after them, hoping to catch them and turn them aside. "Take cover!"

But his words were lost. The Dothraki, Reach Knights and Lannister soldiers saw their peril and began to bolt. There was no thought of fighting. No thought of killing the foes they had just been in deadly contact with. The only thought was to escape and save themselves. Horses bolted in every direction, but there was no escape the wrath of the dragon. The flames licked the ground and Jaime could feel the heat of the flames even from where he was.

Tommen nearly bolted but only Jaime's firm hand kept him in place. He was forced to look down though, holding his hand up at the intensity of the light and heat.

"You alright?" Dickon was shouting. He heard Osmund Kettleblack and Preston Greenfield asking him similar questions. Yet when he looked up, what he saw chilled him. Dozens of Dothraki, Lannisters, knights and horses had been flash burned into a standing position. He could see the pain on their faces at their death. Even as the clouds of smoke billowed into the sky and darkened his sight, he saw a wind blow through, and the bodies of ashes were blown away.

There was nothing. No bodies to bury. No bodies to give proper burial.

 _There it is. That look. I have seen it every day. All of you judge me._

She's coming for another pass! Did someone shout that? He wasn't sure. Yet he turned, and the armies were scattering. She was flying low to the ground. Her dragon roaring triumphantly. He rode hard towards the scorpions. She was aiming straight for them, the last two. All their hopes were on these two. Dickon Tarly and the other two may have been following him, but he wasn't sure.

 _His last words were the same he had been saying for hours._

 _Oh really? And what was that?_

 _Burn them all._

Thud. He saw the twin bolts lance out at the same time. He saw flames begin to rush forth from the dragons mouth. But then…the bolts hit. One took it in the shoulder. The other went straight through its open maw. And the dragon fell. It crashed headfirst into the ground and skidded. Jaime saw dirt being thrown up from the force of its body and scales. And Daenerys Targaryen was thrown from her dragon and landed hard on the ground.

 _Tell me, what would you do if your beloved Renly ordered you to kill your own father and stand idly by while he burned thousands of people to death?_

"Are you with me?" he asked, turning to those around him. He saw that they saw what he saw. A chance to end this nightmare. The nightmare that her father had never achieved. One that she was trying to achieve. They also knew what he was asking of them.

"To the death," Osmund replied.

"To the death," Preston agreed, his voice trembling.

"To the death," Dickon said, resignation in their voices.

Jaime spurred his horse forward and as he rode hard, he grabbed the spear of a fallen soldier. If he were to die, he would die doing what he had been known as once. The best jouster in the entire kingdom. The best in the lists. The master of tourneys.

 _You know, I don't believe he actually thought he was going to die. He thought that he would be reborn from the ashes as a dragon._

The others rode hard behind him as Dothraki began to swarm around to protect their queen. Osmund Kettleblack was the first to fall, three arrows striking him in his chest and another hitting him sideways through the head. He tumbled off, his horse darting in a different direction.

They had reached the second scorpion where Dothraki were swarming, cutting down the crew even as they tried to yield. Preston swung his sword, cutting the leg out from under one man and his next stroke cutting through a Dothraki's face. Yet two Dothraki charged him from the side on their horses and despite his fast swings, he only managed to cut the hand off one man before the arakh of the other struck him across the throat. Preston Greenfield died even as he stabbed his killer through the gut.

 _Burn them in their houses. Burn them in their beds!_

They were now within a couple of yards of her. She had staggered to her feet, looking down at an arm that was clearly shattered in many places. Jaime focused on the Queen Daenerys Targaryen and readied himself. He would be known as both Kingslayer and Queenslayer.

And he aimed the spear and….Daenerys screamed as she was hit full in the shoulder. At the last second she had noticed her danger and moved. That had saved her life but even as the spear plunged into her shoulder, Jaime lost balance of Tommen and fell to the ground. That saved his life, as a dozen arrows struck Tommen.

 _Defend the King. Obey the King. Obey your father._

Jaime looked up from the dirt and saw Tommen die. That…..struck him hard. Sure, this wasn't really his son. But to see the horse he had named after hiss son die, whining in pain as it ended, it hurt him so terribly. He looked at Daenerys Targaryen, lying in the good, clutching the spear with her one good hand, as if she would remove the spear herself.

 _You despise me. A man without honor._

He stood up, and withdrew _Widow's Wail._ He advanced on her, limping from the impact the ground had on his leg. The Mother of Dragons looked up at him, fear in her eyes. He was mere feet from her, when a dragon roared and looking up, he saw a massive black dragon let loose a massive wave of flame…right infront of his mother.

Jaime jumped back but the heat swept over him and he screamed. He fell to a knee, dropping his sword and placing his hand on his face. He removed it, to find blood and skin sticking to it. He screamed in agony as the pain of the scorching heat blistered his body.

Jaime felt himself being grabbed and dragged onto a horse. He settled in the saddle, the pain unbearable.

"Ride, Ser Jaime!" Dickon Tarly shouted and slapped his horse on the rump, "Ride! Escape to King's Landing!"

Jaime looked back, as he rode off, to find Dickon fighting off a wave of Dothraki, cutting down three before he fell under the blows of a dozen others. He looked back towards freedom, the Dothraki having scattered when their Queen came in for the kill and he rode hard, hoping he could make it to freedom before he was killed or the horse gave out on him.

And the sky was smoke and fire behind him.

 **To be continued in _Episode 10: The Dagger._**

* * *

 _ **Episode Notes:**_

 _ **-Originally this was just going to be the Battle of the Roseroad, but I thought it would be nice to have it start off with Jorah and answering if he's alive or not.**_

 _ **-Every person who was died this episode was always planned to die this episode.**_

 _ **-I actually am a huge fan of Bronn's but I stated at the beginning of this story that even characters I like were going to be fair game. When I roiginally envisioned this battle his death was always there. Bronn was always going to die, but originally he was going to be racing back with a strike of his conscience, saving Jaime only to die. But no, he was always going to abandon the fight as soon as Daenerys Targaryen arrived with her dragons.**_

 _ **-I was half-tempted to kill off Jaime as a major twist during this episode, but I have other plans that would have been royally screwed by his death.**_

 _ **-Rhaegal's death is ironic because her first brother to die was Rhaegar.**_

 _ **-I always wanted Daenerys to get wounded this battle. It will help humble her which is key to my future plans for this season.**_

 _ **-The Double Ds have stated that Viserion's death was so poignant because of the fact that Daenerys was shown as being really close to all her dragons. They then proceeded to show several clips of here with her dragons and surprise, surprise, Drogon was always front and center in every shot. Fact is, we were never really shown her being all that well-rounded with her dragons, because they kept focusing on Drogon. I hoped to change that with these last two episodes.**_

 _ **-There is symbolism in Jaime losing both his horse name after his youngest son, and losing Widow's Wail, the sword that had belonged to his son.**_

 _ **-So...the armies of Casterly Rock and the Reach are destroyed...but Daenerys had lost a dragon, been wounded and no longer has Dragonstone to fall back to. Also, it has been stated that the Dothraki refuse to follow a leader who has fallen from his mount. Will this apply to Daenerys Targaryen as well? And how does this affect the balance of power in Westeros? We shall see.**_


	57. Epi 10: The Dagger, Ch 1: Jon

**Episode 10: The Knife**

 ***Jon***

 _"One of the wildlings you brought back, he says he knows your uncle Benjen. He says he's still alive."_

 _"Are you sure he said Benjen?"_

 _"He said he was First Ranger. Says he knows where to find him."_

 _Jon stood to his feet and hurried out of his chambers. He knew what was at the end of the dream. He knew it and tried to pull away. But he couldn't. He was stuck. Stuck running out of the chambers, where he had been safe. He wanted to wake up, to escape what would happen next. But he couldn't, the dream compelling him onwards._

 _Down the ancient steps towards the courtyard. Pulling on his gloves. Without sword or dagger, he walked blindly….no rushed blindly to the ambush. Yet he couldn't wake up, escape the nightmare._

 _Alliser Thorne waited at the bottom of the stairs. "He says he saw him a fortnight ago at Hardhome."_

 _"He could be lying," Jon said. Alliser Thorne towered over him by a neck and head._

 _"Well, there is only one way to find out."_

 _"Where is he?"_

 _"Over there."_

 _A group of Night's Watch standing in a group, three torches held over their head, burning in the night. No, NO! Wake up! Wake up! Damn it Jon, wake the fuck up! No, no waking. He ran forward, bullying hiss way past the group and reached the other side._

 _There, stood a single cross. The word "TRAITOR" written plainly. No, please. Don't make me go through this again. Jon turned to see Alliser Thorne stepping up, and he could see the look in his eyes. The hatred, the rage, the regret at what was about to happen._

 _The dagger plunged into him. It felt as real as the real blade that stabbed into him. "For the Watch," the First Ranger growled in his ear. Again and again blades plunged into his body, each man repeating the same phrase. Down he went to his knee, barely able to breath from all the wounds._

 _And then came Ollie, his personal Steward. Jon could see the pain, the shame in the boy's eyes. Not pain and shame of what the boy was about to do. No, pain and shame at the betrayal he felt that Jon had done._

 _"Ollie," he gasped the gasp a beg. A beg for him not to do it. A beg for the nightmare to end._

 _But the blade still went in and Ollie looked with pure unadulterated rage at Jon. "For the Watch," Ollie said with as much force as his young body could produce._

 _Jon fell backwards, and he felt as if he were falling, falling deep into a well. The darkness began to fill his vision, and he began to panic. Joon needed to wake up! No, don't let the darkness take me!_

 _The darkness swallowed him whole….._ and with a kick he shot up in bed.

His body trembled, sweating as he put his hands to his face. His hands were shaking so violently it made his bones hurt. His heart pounded, each pounding painful. One of the knife blades that penetrated his body had stabbed him had nicked his head, and there was always a constant ache from it.

Every night he dreamed the dream. The dream of his death. Not one night since he had been brought back had he been free of the dream. He always felt the blades entering his heart, he always felt the dark embrace of death surrounding him. No matter how hard he tried, death seemed to always find a way of entrapping him.

 _Why did that witch have to bring me back? Why am I stuck in this never-ending nightmare?_

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and took a few steadying breaths. Once his breathing had calmed a bit, he pushed himself to his feet. His body ached from the violence of his waking. He couldn't stay there in the room. As he looked around and saw the walls, he suddenly was overcome by an intense feeling of claustrophobia, the walls seeming to close around him.

He threw on his tunic, as he had been sleeping without one and grabbing his cloak, threw it over as well. With a fluidic motion, he pulled on both boots and exited into the hallway outside his chambers. He still felt closed in though, even in the hallway.

A young man stood there, roughly of similar height and build to Jon. He carried a bastard-sword in his sheath and wore the black cloak of Jon's newly formed Kingsguard. He was the second and only member at the moment outside of Balon Swann. Robyn Small was his name, hailing from Ramsgate along the Broken Branch river. He had fought at the Battle of the Bastards, as he had been visiting kin at Bear Island when Jon had visited, looking for aid against the Boltons. He had been eager to join thee Kingsguard when he heard it had been formed.

Jon had knighted him then made him a member of the Kingsguard, the Crow Cloaks as they referred to themselves, for their sable cloaks. They served in shifts of six hours per man. Jon had yet to find others to serve. He had asked Brienne of Tarth but she had begged off due to her oath to Sansa.

"Your Grace," Ser Robyn said.

"I need some fresh air," Jon told him, and with that, he walked down the long hallways of Winterfell.

He hated nights in Winterfell. Everything was dead here…he winced at the word. Everything was _asleep_ during the nights, there was no activity to divert his mind from the tragedy of his death. The fact of his death was always there at the back of his mind. Lurking and waiting for a chance to rear its ugly head.

He could suppress it during the day when he had a million things to occupy his time. Very soon he would start sending men to the Wall to help man it, besides the criminals and prisoners he had already sent up there. Bran told him that the White Walkers hadn't moved from their rallying point, even though they were amassed. What were they waiting for?

Yet when the night came, there was nothing to stop him from pondering at length the magic that had brought him back to life. Nor the ordinary and crude methods it had been ended. He tried to block it out as he walked down a flight of stairs that led to the courtyard.

As soon as he emerged into the night, he suddenly felt free, the open skies and walls far enough away that as he stopped in center of the courtyard, he was able to breathe deeply and freely. He looked at the walls of stone, the braziers that burned at random spots to show light to those who were walking throughout the darkened castles exterior. He spotted a guard resting forward on the wall's battlements, looking towards an unseen north.

Jon lifted his eyes to the night sky. It was clear, something far too rare since winter had set it. The stars were shown in all their soft white glory, stretched across the sky in the great band of color that was like a painter had tossed a brush dripping with paint at the sky and it stuck. He breathed the night air, filling his lungs with the crisp fragrance of snow and stone.

"Amazing, isn't it?" a woman's voice asked.

He turned to see a person approaching to stand next to his side. Jon glanced back at Robyn who was about to step forward but Jon shook his head, indicating the person, who was a woman, was trustworthy. Indeed, even with the cloak that fell to either side of her frame, he could tell the gender, the shape of her breasts clear against the night chill.

"What is?" he asked.

"The stars in the sky!" she waved a gloved hand to take them in. "Just to imagine how many stars are up there. What do you think they are?"

"Never given it much thought," he said, which was true. Jon left such contemplations to philosophers and maesters. "They are there, we are here."

"Indeed, we are, my lord," she replied. _My lord? Does she not realize who I am?_ "I don't sleep too well during my moon's blood, so I always take a walk in the night to clear my head of thoughts."

"What thoughts are those?" Jon asked. Even as he asked her the question, she rubbed her cheek with a hand.

"Oh," she said, continuing to rub her cheek. "About my family. About the future. Will I be one day wed and have children or will I live to be an old maiden, mooning about lost chances? What would the King think of me? A foolish girl from Fishing Village on the Stony Shore I'm sure. What was it like for Ser Dunken the Tall to ride in random villages and be praised for his deeds, many of which could have been false. That sort of thing."

That was a lot of things to be pondering. Jon was rather impressed at the complexity of it. He, he never would have thought so much about stuff like that. The tales of old, what other people thought of him. Well….not anymore. He was comfortable with whom he was, outside of the undead part.

"Yourself?" she asked.

"Treachery, betrayal, death," Jon stated. "Can I do what I need to do? Will I be able to make my father proud? What does the truth of my birth mean and how it has estranged me further from the woman who I have learned is not a sibling but a cousin. Yet I was raised as her brother so is she my sister?"

The woman was silent for a long moment. Jon felt suddenly foolish, saying all this to her. A woman he did not know, who didn't recognize him. There was something he found liberating in that fact though. As if it gave him the confidence to speak his mind without feeling pressured.

"I can't answer those questions for you," the woman said. "I can only say one thing though, one truth I have learned in life. It is not birth that makes a person. It's his upbringing. His morals, what he states as true and not true that makes the truth."

Jon wasn't sure he quiet followed. He looked at her and he could see the roll of her eyes as if he was failing to grasp a simple truth. Simple to her, maybe. Not so much to him.

"We choose who we want to be," she finally simplified.

"Ah," he understood.

They stood there for a long moment, staring at the stars together. Then, she cleared her throat and rubbed her hands together, as if her gloves weren't enough to warm her hands. She turned to him and gave him a big smile.

"Forgive me, my lord," she said, "I must take my leave and return inside."

"Alright," Jon said, "Good night then."

"Good night," she said, turning and heading off, her feet leaving footprints in the snow.

He stood there, turning to watch the stars. Despite that, he suddenly had a deep desire to know this woman better. Perhaps call on her later. This woman from Fishing Village on the Stony Shore. Yes, there was a war he had to plan, but he found himself having completely for a while forgotten about the troubles that had brought him outside.

"Wait," he called to her. "Who are you?"

She didn't stop but turned her head and called back. "I am Lady Lexi Lane," she called back. "If you should ever wish to speak again, you can find me here every night around this time."

With that, she vanished inside the castle walls, and Jon was left standing there. A small smile graced his lips. Perhaps…perhaps he would take a nightly walk tomorrow.


	58. Epi 10, Ch 2: Jorah

***Jorah***

"Thank you for your hospitality," Jorah said, taking the reins of the sorry nag that passed as a horse. "I only wish I could pay you for your kindness."

The old man waved his hand dismissively. "Think nothing of it," he insisted, patting the horse gently on the neck and rubbing it. His skin dragged behind the motion. "Like I said, it's not like I'm going anywhere. So take my horse, and be not dismayed. Old Jubal is as old as I am, and just as reliable. Hehehe."

"But still," the old knight said, grabbing the saddle and pulling himself into the saddle. "I still feel wrong about taking advantage of you without having a chance to pay you back."

"Nonsense," the old man retorted and waved his hands in front of himself as if something annoying was flying in front of him. "You need to learn that generosity need not be paid back."

Jorah understood that. Yet he had never been one who enjoyed charity being given to him. He believed firmly in working and earning what was given him. Even what was given to him in good faith. The old man had lent him a spare sword and an extra traveling cloak. There also hung a bag from the saddle with a weeks worth of food, if rationed properly.

"Besides," the old man smiled wickedly, "I have seen what you had on your person. Trust me, I'd have better luck being paid by a tax collector of the Queen then I will have with you."

Jorah couldn't help but agree with the assessment. He held out his hand, and the old man grabbed it. With that, taking a deep breath, he rode onwards and away from the small cottage. He followed the directions of the old man, but it wasn't until he was an hour's ride away that he realized he had not once asked for the old man's name.

* * *

The sun was already setting when he arrived at Cerwyn. The towns folk were drawing within the walls as the sun was giving off its farewell rays before it set. A nice tapestry of orange, red and purple colored the skies as Jorah fell in among the long line of people headed towards the safety of the walls. The slowness allowed him to take advantage of looking around him, even though he kept his grey scale well hidden behind rags.

The guards made no attempt to hinder the travelers, giving only the most cursory glance at them. Yet as he approached, Jorah noted the double-headed axe on their shields, and he smiled. It had been too long since he had seen the sigil of House Cerwyn, the lords of Cerwyn.

He entered the city, streets haphazardly thrown together, with barely a semblance of true order. In middle of the city, and its buildings which looked as if they were about to tumble over, Castle Cerwyn stood in the exact center of the city. The land depressed towards the castle, so it's highest point wasn't much higher than the outer walls. Yet he could see the strength of it, and despite it's obvious vulnerability to catapults which could easily strike it, the castle was one of the thickest, the narrowest point being five feet thick, at places the castle wall was a dozen feet thick.

Jorah made his way to the maester. He had visited the city three times before, and knew that this was one of the few maesters who did not live in the castle, but instead lived among the people. Maester Eddard Sand was a Dornishman who had absolutely hated Dorne. When he had been given his choice of assignments, he had chosen as far north as he could from the land of his birth. Jorah had always wondered why that was, yet the man had never mentioned his reasons why when he had met him.

Next to the barracks, a long building of five stories which was unusually filled, was Maester Eddard's humble abode. Drunken soldiers staggered back to the barracks, singing _White Harbor Drunk_ a rather humorous ditty about a man who became so drunk, he sailed to Braavos and spent a whole week thinking he was at White Harbor.

Jorah let the men pass, a group of five carrying each other with locked arms back to the barracks. They couldn't figure out why they couldn't fit all through the door at the same time, and they continued running into the door, the four men on either side of the middle man slamming against the wall.

He rolled his eyes as he pulled up to the hitching post outside the maesters hovel and tied Old Jubal against the post which was polished with the sheer amount of reins that had been tied there beforehand. He stepped up to the door, and knocked on it.

He stood out there as the night fully descended, and he shivered as the insane cold dug deep into him. _Gods damn it!_ He growled to himself. _I know I've been away for a long time, but surely winter wasn't this cold last time!_

He raised his hands and rapped on the door again, warming his hands together. He winced as he felt the hard scaled skin of the palms of his hands rubbing against each other. It made the hairs on the back of his neck rise on end.

"What do you want?" a thick accented voice asked from behind him.

Jorah turned to see the large man in both height and width standing behind him, carrying two large faggots under his arms, each stick jutting out at close but not perfect angles from the rest of the bundle. His skin was like that of sandstone and the man's disposition seemed to be just as abrasive.

"Maester Eddard?" he asked.

"In the fucking flesh," the man grumbled, edging past him. His large body easily nudged Jorah to the side. "What do you want?"

"I need to see you about a problem," Jorah commented.

"Oh yes, of course!" the man said in mock surprise. From his cloak he drew a large ring of keys and lifting it to his mouth, he gripped the correct key in his lips. Reaching up as best as he could without letting the faggot drop, grabbed it with his fingers and stuck it into the keyhole. "How could I have not guessed that! One may think a maester lives here and that he has the answer to every fucking question every cunt brings him. I was respectable before I came here to this Seven Hells city! Now all the men think I can help them with their most basic problems and the women don't want to pay. Oh no! Not with money, but they think if they show up naked, I'll plow them and then they won't have to pay!"

He kicked the door open and stomped inside, cursing everything from the weather, to naked women to the way the sun wouldn't stay in the sky. Jorah just stood there as the man kept rambling about how unfair life was and how he could have been Lord over his House instead of fixing colicky babies and being forced to explain why tits sagged on women.

"Well?" his voice demanded from inside. "Are you coming in or not? And bring the damn keys with you!"

"Of course," Jorah said.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, removing the keys from the keyhole of course. At once he felt warmer, even though the maester was only tossing a few of the sticks from one of the faggots into the fireplace now. Jorah glanced around and found it was just as humble inside as it was outside.

A stack of a dozen scrolls and books sat at one corner of the room. He couldn't tell what they were, even as the man struck flint and steel together to start the fire. A small staircase led to an upper floor, probably where the maester had his bed. Several cabinets with shelves lined the wall with different herbs and other salves. A gourd and other items such as a mortar and pestle also lay scattered about the hovel.

"So," Eddard Sand said, standing up and rubbing his hands together and breathing on them. "Let me guess. Your sword is broken and you want to know how to get it straight."

"My sword?" Jorah asked, raising an eyebrow. "Why would I bring my sword to you…."

"I'm talking about your cock you stupid cunt!" Eddard snapped. "I have had thirty men coming in here over the last few weeks because they couldn't keep their penises straight! Well, that why you're here, isn't it?"

"No," Jorah said. "I need to get some _Time Giver_ from you."

"Now why in Seven Hells would you want _Time Giver?"_ snapped the Dornishman. "It's only for those with….wait….did you go and get grey scale?"

"Not intentionally," Jorah said defensively, holding up his hands innocently.

Eddard's face broke in a massive smile. It was a rather shock transition and Jorah wasn't quite sure how to take it when he grabbed him and steering him with a firm grip sat him down on the chair. He looked up at the man who had all his teeth out on display. He was missing a few teeth though.

"Now that is something worth my time," Eddard said, his voice also just as cheerful as his face was. "I thought you were another horny cunt who couldn't stick his woman. But this is rather exciting. It's been a while since I've made _Time Giver_ but give me about an hour and I will have you all set up for two days."

"Two days?" Jorah asked, alarm in his face. "Why two days? I was hoping you could give me enough for an entire month."

"I don't have stores like that," Eddard snapped his fingers as if that was the final say. "Winterfell has enough stores. Maester Wolkan is the new maester there. A bumbling fool if there ever was one, but that is one lucky bastard when it comes to making medicine. Some of the best medicine of the Realm can be found from him."

"Winterfell?" Jorah asked.

"Aye," the maester replied, grabbing powders and herbs together from shelves. "He's the maester to King Jon, the King in the North! Fuck the king."

"Whys that?" Jorah asked, watching as the man began to cut herbs with a long knife.

"I have nothing against the man personally," Eddard replied, "Yet he is mobilizing the entire North to go off to the Wall to fight grumpkins and snarks. You know what the cunt says? The Army of the Dead is marching on the Wall. Lunacy I tell you! He should be focused on the people staying home. It's winter for Gods sakes!"

"I saw the barracks were full," Jorah commented, thinking about the barracks that had been almost overflowing.

"Every man, woman and child who can fight are being sent North," Eddard shook his head. "If you ask me, the Wall froze all sense out of his head! But like I said, I have nothing against the man personally. He's just a King, and all Kings and Queens are cunts."

"Not all," Jorah replied.


	59. Epi 10, Ch 3: Jaime

***Jaime***

"Hold very still, Ser Jaime."

Gods how he hated those words. A strangled gurgle rose from his throat between his clamped teeth, his lip curled in a snarl. He lay back against a small popular tree in a small orchard of a farmers about a day's ride north west of the battlefield. He gripped the ground under his body hard, his fingernails digging into the dirt.

The cause for his agony was a maester who was peeling off a layer of bandages that wrapped around his face and upper arms. All his armor had been stripped from him and left behind, leaving only his tunic and breeches. His golden hand had been blackened and removed, revealing a ring around his stump where the gold had cooked it. His hand had also been discarded as well.

He had passed out at one point, regaining consciousness to not only find all that gone, but the cloak that had been Myrcella's dress she had died in completely gone as well. When he had asked after it, they told him it hadn't been on him. The hair on the back of his head had been burned off as well, and Jaime assumed that it had caught fire and he had thrown it off in his panic.

Everything was gone. The horse he had named after Tommen. Joffrey's sword. And Myrcella's dress. Everything that had either touched or were inspired by his children was all gone. All he had left was Cersei, and yet, he wanted nothing to do with her anymore. He was alone now in the world.

About a dozen men stood nearby, two keeping a lookout. They were all that had managed to escape the battle. Or at least, all those that had fled in the same direction that Jaime had. One man held down Jaime's unburned shoulder as Jaime was forced to endure the agony of the bandages being peeled back from his face.

"What….is….your….predictions….grrr," Jaime managed to gasp out between the pain.

The maesters face was drawn and haggard as he spoke. Three of the twelve others also sported injuries as well. One man was missing a foot, which made riding his horse that much harder. Another had also been burned, his entire head and both hands bandaged. His job had not stopped but he had been busy.

Yet they endured the painful ride. They knew what capture meant to them.

"I'm afraid that despite my best efforts, you most likely won't heal completely," the maester replied. He began to apply new salves to the burns, which caused Jaime to buck hard. Only the hard hands of the man next to him, a swordsman from Silverhill who had stolen a Dothraki rider's horse he had killed, kept him from completely pulling away from the maester. "You will never look as fine as you once did, for the skin I highly doubt will be able to fully regenerate."

"That's not very….errr…comforting," Jaime gritted his teeth as a new bandage was laid across his face. "Will I be as….gah….ugly as the Hound?"

"More-so, I fear," he said, very gently laying a new strip of bandage along his jaw. "Let's just say the only way you will carry on your family line is to pay a woman and blindfold her."

"Your bedside manner needs work," the swordsman commented.

"I heartily agree," Jaime nodded his head, wincing at the pain the motion caused.

The maester did not reply to that as he moved on to the arm. As he worked, Jaime let his mind rove over the mental map he had in his head. If they were lucky, a good day's ride would bring them near Tumbleton, but they would have to turn and go north-east. There, they could take shelter and hold out, but against dragons? He had taken down one dragon for sure, but two more were still out there.

There was also the problem of the Dothraki hordes. If he had been commanding the hordes, Jaime would have sent thousands of them in every direction to kill escapees of the battle. The more killed, the less likely the Seven Kingdoms could rally a defense against them.

 _Defense? What defense?_ Jaime thought bitterly to himself. If the hordes couldn't break the cities, then the dragons could. And what army now in the whole of Westeros could stand up against the horde now? He doubted fewer than a hundred escaped the battle, and those few would be either killed or captured.

Roughly a fourth of the entire Lannister army had been wiped out. Probably more than that, as the Dothraki would have had to butcher the defenders of Massey's Hook, another ten thousand. Perhaps thirty thousand men were dead or captured and he guessed that the entire Lannister army only numbered perhaps just over forty thousand. Yet only ten thousand weren't tied up in garrison duty.

But what if the Reach? Did they even have fifteen thousand swords left? Even if they abandoned every city for a last ditch battle, the Dothraki and Unsullied had them vastly outnumbered. There was no way they had taken out even half of their army.

And then there was the damn dragons.

"So what shall we do?" a knight of the Reach asked. "Where can we go?"

"There are a few fords directly north of us," Jaime said, the maester at long last leaving him be. "Our best bet would be to cross them and reach King's Landing. It will take us a good two days hard ride but we will make good time."

"Good time?" one of the men, an archer who has come from a farm in the Stormlands. "Good time?! What the fuck are you talking about? Four of us are really hurt, three of us have barely ridden a horse in our entire lives! And yet you expect us to make it across the Mander and to King's Landing in two days?"

"Wayland does have a point," the swordsman said. "Perhaps it would be better for those who actually can ride to go on ahead. The rest of us will slow them down."

There was muttering of agreement from those gathered. One man was taking a piss on a gnarled poplar and the only sound that came from him was grunts of relief. It was easy to think of abandoning the weak. Jaime was one such man. A broken burnt man who could barely fight, despite his own high bias towards himself.

"No," Jaime shook his head. "We stay together."

"You can't be serious!" a knight threw up his hands. "Ser Jaime, Garek speaks truly. The Dothraki may had mercy on the wounded."

"Not bloody likely. Remember the prisoners she torched at Dragonstone? Why do you think she would spare the wounded? Besides, you should be ashamed of yourself! We knights pledge to protect the weak and those who are unable to defend themselves. Would you have them say that when the time came to fulfill your oats you abandoned them for personal profit?"

"What would you know of honor?" the knight retaliated hotly. "You killed the Mad King despite your oaths to serve and protect him."

 _And just who the fuck would you be talking to now if I hadn't?_ Jaime knew that they would never accept his version of events. He was very used to that after all these years.

"Trust me," Jaime said instead, "Once you break an oath, everyone judges you as an oath breaker. No matter the motives."

"Stay here is you want!" the knight snapped. "I'm getting out of here while there is still a chance. I suggest the rest of you do the same."

With that, he stormed to his horse and mounted. No one spoke to him to try to dissuade him. Soon, he was riding hard towards the north, looking for the river and the other side that promised safety. How well he would survive on his own was anyone's guess.

The knight was correct on one thing though. They had been sitting in the same place for longer than was wise. He slowly rose up, wincing as pain courses through him. His knees had also gotten singed, but nowhere as bad as the other burns he had gotten. He was almost tempted to cut off the legs of his breeches a few inches above the knees and let them refresh via cool air.

"Let's get mounted and move out," he called to the others. "We stuck together and we will survive."

There was movement as they all mounted. Jaime had to be helped into his saddle, his arms protesting from the pain of trying to move them. But soon he was up and looking around at his companions. The other knight was a good head start, but he could be seen beyond the edge of the orchard.

Jaime may not agree with everything the man had said. But as he looked at the others, he knew the man was right on one other count. They all had been right. They were going to be slowed down by the state of many of them. Although none were totally immune and many of them were ready to drop off their horses from exhaustion.

Jaime drove them as hard as he could. He ignored his own pain or the fact he could barely see out of one eye. Even though one of their number was missing a foot, and others had to go at a slower pace, he drove them onwards. Too many had died on the Roseroad. He'd be damned if he left any behind. These were all good men who did not deserve to die horrible deaths at the hands of Essossian savages.

* * *

When the group had started off, there was still three hours of sunlight left. Their progress by the time Night began to fall was only about two leagues. Healthy men could have done five in the same amount of time. Yes, they made progress. Yet it was damn pitiful.

He did not allow them to stop even once the sun sank to the west. Even when all there was happened to be starlight between broken clouds in the night sky, he kept onwards. Twice they nearly left a man behind, one of the wounded falling behind. Yet they always went back and found them. Yet it was time that was being lost and it drove Jaime crazy!

It was well past midnight when the maester pulled up to him. He cleared his throat. Jaime glanced over at him.

"We need to stop, Ser Jaime."

"We will as soon as we reach the Mander," Jaime replied.

"None of us can keep this pace!" The maester protested. "Look, I am just as eager to cross the river as any man here. But how far do we still have? A few hours at the very least! The men and horses need a rest or else we may miss the fords completely."

Stopping was the last thing Jaime wanted to do. They had no idea just how close the Dothraki were. It was better to believe they were nearer and side on the err of caution then to think they were so far away they became complacent.

"Just four hours and we can have a fresh start of it!" The maester begged, "It will give the wounded time to recover a little bit and for the strong to have a chance to recover their strength should the Dothraki fall upon us!"

"Absolutely not!" Jaime snapped, regretting it instantly as the sharp motion tore at his burned cheek.

"Then three hours. It may not be sufficient, but we need the rest!"

Jaime hated to admit it. Yet there was no denying the fact. Even the strong unhurt ones did not seem much capable of continuing on like this. Even in the black of night he could see several who were all but passed out in their saddles.

"Damn it!" He grunted. "Three hours, but four men will keep watch, switching out every hour. That way everyone gets two hours of sleep."

The others were vocal in their agreement of the plan. Two hours may not be a lot, but it was something. Enough to close the eyes and clear the drowsiness. Or at least, that was the lie he told himself. They dismounted right where they were and pulled the horses into the center of their small camp. Jaime forbade them to light any fires, just in case.

Four of the unharmed knights took the first watch and Jaime slowly lowered himself to the ground. He called to one of the knights to wake him for the middle watch. Once he was sure that he would be woken, he fell asleep.

It barely felt like he had closed his eyes when he was shaken awake. He had not dreamed at all during his small nap but the knight assured him it had been an hour.

"I really hate to wake you, Ser Jaime," the knight muttered, "But you asked-"

The words stopped in his throats as there was a twang of a bowstring and the man toppled over Jaime. The clouds had passed an he could see the back of the arrow sticking from his neck. He jumped up, reaching for his sword.

"We're under attack!" He bellowed as arrows streamed in from all sides.

The other three guards collapsed as arrows drove into them. The horses screamed with terror and pain as the night exploded with whoops, hollars and screams. A couple of the horses fell under the barrage of arrows and the rest of the men were on their feet, keeping low. A few of them tried to pull a dead horse away from the panicking group to jump behind it for cover when two more men went down at the same time, arrows hitting them.

And then, the Dothraki swarmed into the camp, screaming as they came. The wounded men fought bravely, even the one man bandaged up more badly then Jaime was ran into a Dothraki rider and grabbing him, threw him off his horse.

 _Gods damn it! We should never have stopped!_

That was the last thing Jaime thought before stars exploded in his eyes.


	60. Ep 10 Ch 4: Arya

* **Arya** *

A stiff chill breeze swept the road as she approached her final destination. Not her final destination, there was so much more she wanted to do and see. Her decision had been liberating, a time when she let go of doubts and set firmly on a path of her own choosing.

How many others had the same amount of clarity in their own lives? With such a clear purpose before them, there was no shortage of what they could do. Her horse slowed, but with a flick of her reins, she began to go faster.

A single building stood at the side of the crossroads. All roads seemed to converge here. A hub of travel that connected the North, the Vale of Arryn, Riverrun and King's Landing. The two hitching posts were filled with horses already picketed. So as she approached, she dismounted it aand tied the horse to a metal ring that stuck out from the side of the building.

The Crossroads Inn was perhaps the single most visited point in the entire Seven Kingdoms, for all travelers would at the very least pass by it. How many would never see King's Landing or Winterfell and yet visit here?

Grabbing the strap of the large leather pouch that hung from the saddle, she removed it. Arya checked the loops and buckle to ensure it was tightly shut. Smiling at the security of her bag, she stepped around the edge of the building. Two men were sitting on stumps next to the wall, talking to each other. Steam rose from their mouths with every word and their nostrils breathed column of steam with every exhale.

"…..the Dragon Queen is fighting a vicious war in the south," one of them said. "Last I hears, Ser Jaime Lannister had routed the Dornish army in the Prince's Pass and sent them scampering back to Dorne."

"The Kingslayer?" his companion asked, sticlking a finger up a nostril and picking a booger. "Ain't he da one dat da Young Wolf captured? Totally surprised him?"

"Aye," the first man said. He shook his head as Arya walked past him. "Oh, how I do's wish for the days of the King!"

"King Robert?" Arya asked, slowing her pace as she approached the door.

"Bah, with Robert!" he spat. "I be talking about King Arys II. Say what ye will about the Mad King, but the Realm was not in debt nor was there wars, except for wot was thrust upon him. The Realm was never ahungered while he reigned!"

"Hail da Targaryens!" the second man said, pumping his fist in the air as he stuck the finger coated in boogers into his mouth to eat it.

Arya frowned at that. How could people remember the Mad King with kindness? He had burned villages, and had murdered men, such as her grandfather and uncle. He had protected kidnappers and rapists like his son, the Prince. He had allowed the likes of Tywin Lannister to wipe out entire families for simple slights. But to each man his own.

As she opened the door, she heard a raven cawing next to her. She glanced up at the sleek black bird, and it was looking straight at her. She looked away and grabbed the door latch when she could have sworn she heard the raven cawing:

"Arrrya! Arrryaa! Arrrya!"

She glanced back up at the raven and it was staring unblinking at her. "Brrran! Brrran! Brrrran!" It was cawing and she almost swore that it had said 'Arya' and 'Bran'. Impossible, birds didn't talk! Except parrots, which she had seen in Braavos. They were able to talk, but ravens weren't that smart.

Shaking her head, she swung open the inn door and stepped through. It was just as pleasant as she remembered. Tables scattered in such a way that any man could easily walk between them without running into a patron. The main table of the inn-keep was at the southern wall, or the left wall from where she was standing.

About two dozen men were scattered throughout the inn, speaking in loud volumes. Maybe seven women were also there, usually sitting men. At least one was being fondled by the man sitting next to her, her stuck through the blouse of her dress but seemed to be enjoying the attention immensely, as her own hand was stuck inside his breeches.

Arya walked up to the table, her head barely looking over the table, for it was almost to the inn-keeps elbows. Which were nearly at her eye level. He was a tall fucker, as Gregor Clegane would have called him.

"Boy!" the inn-keep bellowed so loudly that Arya nearly staggered as if she had been hit across the face. And he wasn't even facing her! "Where ar ye? We got cup need afelleng!"

The inn-keep turned towards her, frowned and looked down. He chuckled to himself, a man with a long nose and scraggly beard that fell down to his shoulders. He was a jolly enough man, as she remembered from the last time she had been here, so many years ago. It seemed another life-time ago.

"Welcome ye," the inn-keep said, "I almost din't see ye, my li'le one, hehe. So what can I be doing fer ye?"

"I'd like a room for the night," she said, grabbing a large pouch of coin and setting it on the table. "And I'd like something to eat. I haven't eaten all day."

"I dun think ye won't be growen no ma'er how much we feed ye, hehehe," the inn-keep chuckled. "Da food comes with da room. Three gold dragons and I ken put ye in a room all by yerself. We arrr pretty full ass ye can see but I have a few rooms still. Pay fer it de morn'ng before ye leave."

"That would be lovely," she said.

"Go ahe'd and take a seat," he said, waving to the boisterous crowd. "Da boy will be with ye short like."

"I thank you," she said, taking the money purse from the table and turning to face the room.

There weren't too many tables that were open, but there was one near a corner. She wended her way, jumping back just as aa man bent over and vomited his meal all over the floor, missing the vomit bucket by a good half-foot. She stepped around it, making sure she also kept an eye out for any other filth. A maiden was on her hands and knees, using a brush and water to wash the floor, at the same time trying to swat the hands of a very drunk man away from her ass.

"Let her be or you'll be sorry," Arya said, stepping up to the scullery maid and looking at the drunk full in the face.

The man was roughly twice her size in girth. He was well muscled and his hands showed calluses that could easily rub the skin off a person if he had a mind to do so. Yet Arya knew that calluses and greater weight wasn't much against skill and training.

"Ah, just a bit of harmless fun, lass," he said, and grabbed the maid's butt again.

Arya's fist smashed him across the jaw and he collapsed backwards. Even as he fell, the other patrons laughed at him, jeering that he had been beaten by a little girl. The man fell on the floor with a clatter and immediately passed out and started snoring. Immediately drool started to leak from the side of his mouth.

Arya winked at the scullery maid, a very pretty lass with brown hair and many freckles. She turned and continued her walk to the table. There were only a few crumbs on the table. Putting the side of her hand down on the table, she swept it aside, allowing the grains of the wood to rub against her skin as she swept the crumbs aside.

Back and forth she swept the table with the side of her hand, until a large portion was completely cleared of crumbs. Then, pulling back her chair, she unslung her bag and set it on the floor, resting against the inner side of one of the table legs. This was a bag she refused to let anyone take, so better to have it close. Although she wondered humorously what they would think when they pulled Walder Frey's face out of it.

As she sat there letting the sounds around her wash over her, she thought about how she had come to this particular spot in her life. How she had decided to become whom she was. Vengeance had driven her for so long that it was hard to think of little else.

Yet her time with the Sons of Morgan had helped refocus her. Helped her re-evaluate her decisions in life. Was revenge truly a worthy enough goal?

No. But protecting the pack was. As long as danger remained to her family, she could never be content with just sitting at home, listening to stories and pretending all was right with the world. To make it right though, simply focusing on her list wasn't enough. No, she had to deal with the true enemies of re family. The Lannister for starters.

"Arry?"

The voice was so close to her she was startled. At first she looked around, seeing if someone was standing next to her that was being called. But she felt a massive girth next to her and her hand automatically went to her dagger. She turned to find one of the fastest boys with one of the messiest heads of curly hair standing over her. Her fingers relaxed from the hilt of the dagger.

"It really is you, Arry!" the rotund boy said, his face beaming with delight.

"Hello Hot Pie," Arya replied.

He sat himself down, handing a large plate of food to her and a cup filled to the top. As she grabbed the food and began digging in, cutting into the pie that dominated most of the plate, she glanced over at the boy who had been her friend. Hot Pie had been loud, obnoxious and a little too sun-baked in the brain to be totally sound of mind. But he had been loyal and courageous in his own fashion and despite abandoning her and Gendry, she had never begrudged him his decision to have a good life.

She bit into the food and was at once swimming in one of the Seven Heavens. Gods, she had missed Hot Pie's cooking! He was a true master of the culinary arts as her mother would have called it. Even if he was master of little else.

"Gods, this is the best pie I have ever tasted!" she exclaimed, to which Hot Pie's smile spread even wider. Damn, how did his face not split in half. "Much better than the ones I've made."

"It's all in the butter," he explained. "If you don't add butter into your pies, it's just bland. I didn't realize you cooked pies. Or any food to be honest. I still see you as a little girl I mistook as a boy!"

"I've cooked a pie or two," she shrugged her shoulders. "I didn't add any butter though. I'll have to remember to add some in next time."

"Imagine that," Hot Pie chuckled, "Arry cooking. You know, I am sad that I never noticed you were a girl before Harrenhal. I feel so daft! Especially since you are extremely pretty."

Arya was stunned by that. She stared at the piece of pie on her twin pronged fork and then slowly looked up at Hot Pie. Not once in her entire life had she been called pretty. Okay, maybe her parents had but never a guy. Not unless she was wearing someone else's face.

She remembered that one man with Jaime Lannister calling her a fine piece of ass. Perhaps not quiet the exact words but the intent had been the same. Yet she had been wearing a serving girls face. The poor girl had been walking home from the Twins when Arya had found her and killed her. She still remembered the girl cry tears and gurgling out bloody bubbles from her mouth as she was still technically alive when she had begun to remove her face.

But in her own face and body? Arya had never been called pretty.

"You seem to be doing well," she said in response. She wasn't equipped to know how to deal with being thought of as pretty.

"I am thanks," he acknowledged. "I must say though there is something different about you."

"Like what?" she asked, sticking her fork into her mouth after saying that.

Hot Pie waved his thick hands vaguely. He seemed to be quiet unable to quite voice his thoughts. "Well," he said, his eyebrows furrowing so closely together they almost became one. "There is an edge to you, closest thing I can come up with. You used to be pretty carefree but now, you have this vibe of….well….stone cold seriousness about you."

Well, he's not far off, Arya thought. She wasn't the angry little girl anymore. No she had become much darker than that.

"What happened to you?" he asked. "Where did you go?"

She didn't even start replying when the inn-keeper belowed, "Stop badgering da guests, boy!" he roared. "Get yer fat arse up and back ta work!"

Hot Pie grimaced. Arya could only assume it was a common occurrence for him to be yelled at. But he seemed happy and at peace. She wish she had that. Hot Pie had not had a family when he was 'recruited' by the Nights Watch. But he seemed to have adopted one here.

"It was good to see you Arry," he said, pushing himself up.

"Hot Pie," Arya said. She swallowed as she was about to say what she was going to say. "I'd like you to come visit me in my room tonight. I'll tell you everything about my journey and what's happened. But I warn you, you may think less of me for it."

Hot Pie broke in another smile. This one was not jolly but understanding. He placed a thick hand on her shoulder. His acceptance was gratifying to her, even though she doubted he'd give it later.

"I'm here for you, no matter what," he said and to the sound of the inn-keep shouting at him again, he turned and walked away, leaving Arya to wonder if he really meant it.


	61. Epi 10: Ch 5: Dany

***Dany***

The pain hit her so hard that she bent over and vomited on the ground. She was one of those noisy vomiters, her whole body lurching with every expulsion of her stomach contents or dry heaves. She felt disgusting and sick. The pain had been so great she had forgotten to grab her hair and now Daenerys Targaryen, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, the Great Khaleesi of the Grass Sea, had sticky vomit in her hair.

One of her guards ran forward with a water-skin and opening it, poured it through her hair, washing away the filth. The broken arm was set in a thick splinter and the spear wound had been sewn up. Yet she felt like that even when it fully healed, she would never be as beautiful as she once had been. No, Daenerys didn't put much stock in beauty for beauty sake, but she understood that much of the loyalty towards her came from her looks.

But the pain was nothing next to the loss of Rhaegal. The very thought of his death made her close her eyes, refusing to allow the tears to come forth. She had watched the bolt as it split through his skull and the head emerging from his thick bone. Her beautiful, beautiful child was dead. There was nothing she could do to have stopped it.

Drogon and Viserion had gone made with grief and for a couple of long minutes, they had scoured the countryside, burning both Dothraki and Westerosii alike. Their wrath in their grief had been enough to cause a mass surrender of all troops.

That was three days ago.

Now, she had a major decision to make. What was to be done with all these prisoners? Twenty thousand had surrendered. How was she supposed to take care of that many prisoners?

Her hubris was great, and that was what had brought down her dragon. Drogon and Viserion remained close by, and she felt their presence as keenly as Aggo who stood next to her, arakh resting on his powerful arms. Yet now she only had two dragons.

"I really wish Tyrion was here," she said at long last, opening her eyes. "He would tell me what I should do."

Before her the mass of humanity of surrendered men were resting on the ground, sitting with dejected heads. Dothraki and Unsullied formed a massive perimeter around them. Every now and then, a Lannister or Reach soldier tried to escape, only to be killed.

"You always find a way, Blood of my Blood," Aggo commented. "I am sure that you will discover a way through this as well."

Daenerys sighed and leaned her head back. "That's just it. I _can't._ Where can I march them to keep them imprisoned? We don't have enough ships to transport them all back to Dragonstone. And we lost so many riders, that it will be hard to keep a watch on them all."

Aggo said nothing but made a grunt. No, there had to be a way. There was always a way. Missandei had once told her that she succeeded because she listened to the council of others, then ignored it to find a better way.

There was one way. She wasn't sure how it would be taken. Yet it was the only thing she could think of. What she thought would require a lot of trust on her end and hope. Hope that the sense of honor she always had heard so much talked about by Barristan Selmy and Jorah would hold true.

Even as she thought of it, riders returned, carrying prisoners tied behind their horses. She had blacked out after being speared and it was someone else who had given the order to pursue the refugees of the battle. No one took credit for it though and she half suspected it was a more instinctive move on the Dothraki's part then an actual plan.

"Bring me a few of the nobles who are still alive," she finally said.

Aggo nodded and stepped forward, walking away towards the sea of humanity that was sprawled out before her. So many people, so many possibilities.

She lay back, enjoying what little moment without pain she had. Well, there was always a dull ache, sometimes throbbing from her broken bones. Which had resulted in the recent purge of her stomach's contents.

She had been a fool. In her anger with Tyrion, she had not brought the saddle he had made her. And she had suffered the price of her lack of humility. She was trying so hard to encapsulate her ancestor, that the setbacks of the past month had driven her mad with rage and grief. That had driven her to this.

Yes, she had decimated the armies of the Reach and Casterly Rock. There would be little resistance left to her conquest. But what was to be here next goal? Did she try attacking King's Landing, which may be covered in the massive weapons that had brought down her beloved dragon? Did she go to Dorne and try to reclaim that Kingdom? Or should she just go back to Dragonstone and wait for Cersei to come to terms?

"No!" she snapped, gripping her fist. "I will press on. I will destroy the Lannisters piece by piece. They won a battle, but I am winning the war. What could they possibly do after they killed Rhaegal? Especially since I annihilated their army!"

The thought comforted her, although it did nothing to dull the pain of the death of her dragon. The death of her belief in their invincibility. She would have to be smart and cunning. Like Tyrion.

Damn. She was going to have to talk with him when she returned to Dragonstone. Apologize and try to get him to resume being the Hand of the Queen. She absolutely _hated_ apologizing. But….a great ruler swallowed their pride and did what was necessary. Was that not what Ser Davos had said?

Aggo returned after what felt like an eternity, followed by three men. The only Lords that were both alive, and unwounded. Their armor was coated in a layer of grime, a combination of sweat, dirt and ash. They refused to look at her, but stared at the ground. They were defeated in both body and spirit. Broken.

She didn't know their names, nor did she ask for them. Even if she had asked, they may not have given them to her. Why would they? To them, she was a barbarian queen who had lived her entire life in Essos, not the Westeros. Tyrion said that would be an issue.

"My lords," she said, pushing herself into a sitting position. "You fought well. I am sorry it's taken me three days to gather you together. You must understand that my wounds make it hard for me to carry out such duties. Yet you know that this war is all but over. Queen Cersei cannot maintain her control over Westeros with me and my dragons and my horde bearing down on her."

They said nothing, but shifted uncomfortably where they stood. Daenerys took a deep breath, bracing herself for what she would say next. And how they would react.

"Yet I would not have you or any of your men go down with Cersei," she told them. "I did not come here to rape and pillage. I came to break the wheel of oppression that my ancestor built. I want to be fair and just, and that is where I talk to you lords.

"I will grant the wounded safe passage back to King's Landing," she said, "But they must tell all they meet what happened here. Any lords or knights you have that are wounded must go to Queen Cersei and tell her about what has happened and tell her that I will be more than willing to discuss terms with her to end hostilities between us."

"And what of the unwounded?" one of the lords asked, finally looking up to her. Well, not up, as she was laying on the ground. "What shall become of them? Will your savages butcher us or will you feed us to your dragons?"

"They have one of two choices," she stated. "The first choice is that they must swear fealty to me. And man who does will be pardoned of any resistance against my rule they did prior to their oaths. They will retain all their lands, and be able to return to their families once the war is over."

"And the second option?" he asked.

"They will be imprisoned in Stonedance in Massey Hook until such time as a larger city can be taken or declares for me that they can be moved to," she shrugged. "It is the choice of your men."

The lords glanced back and forth between themselves. This was a rather generous offer. She wasn't going to execute them, and she would pardon all those who would serve. Not to mention the facts that all the wounded would be let free on the understanding they spread the tale of her terror and majesty and superiority through the Seven Kingdoms.

"We will tell our men," one of the lords who hadn't spoken said. "I am sure that there will be many who will take either option."

"They have until tonight to make their decision," she told them, "And I will release the wounded in the morning. Give them another day to rest. The maesters and Silent Sisters will be allowed to accompany them back to King's Landing."

With that she dismissed them. Aggo did not understand the words she had spoken, which was in the Common Tongue of Westeros. Yet he escorted them back with the Dothraki guards that had led them forward on their horses. Ass she watched their retreating backs, she wondered if this mercy had been the best thing.

Yes, it cut down on how much punishment she had to deal out, but the wounded could always return to fight her once they were well enough. She would deal with them again, and perhaps the memory of the Roseroad would unman them if they decided to take up arms against her.

She looked back at Drogon and Viserion who were laying with their long narrow heads on the ground, their arms laying on the ground folded. Such magnificent beasts….she couldn't wait to go back to Dragonstone and rest. She needed it, and time to heal after her wounds.

She closed her eyes as a new wave of pain nearly made her vomit again and wished that the war was already over.

 _To be continued in **Episode 11: Home**_


	62. Epi 11: Home, Ch 1: Jimmy the Fat

_**Authors Note: I do apologize for the month and a half absence. I needed a good break from the story, as you know, I spent two months cranking out a chapter almost on a daily basis. So, I took the time, rewatching**_ **Star Wars _in preperation for_ The Last Jedi. _And then I took the next few weeks just relaxing and working on some other stories I have been meaning to work on. Such as an alternate version of the_ Star Wars Sequel Trilogy _and an original superhero story called_ Defenders of the Worlds Nations: The Rise of Eagle. **

**_But I am now back to this story and it must go on!_**

 **Episode 11: Home**

 ***Jimmy the Fat***

The sorry nag of a horse snorted in the freezing cold. Even with the trees and overhead branches, bare through they be, it did little to protect the men or their horses. Hot jets of steam rose from the beasts nostrils, adding to the other three shit-sorry nags that were tied together.

One of their riders, a man of short stature, head like a lumpy rock and wearing a dumpy hat that was more rag than actual cloth, struggled through the deep snow that came up to the knees of the horses, and roughly his mid-section. He uttered profanities that would have made his mother, may the Seven Bless her soul, give him the switch. The man was filling up the feed bags for the sorry beasts, with enough to get them through the night, but not enough to dip into their next day's allotment.

"Fuck dis!" the man growled. "Fuck ya, ya sorry shits! Fuck da King of da North! What right do he think he have? Banished us to da Wall? Fuck da Lord Commander of da Sentinel Stand foor sending us on this fucking ranging! Fuck Yohn Chast, for not running da fire-kissed bitch Lady Bolton when he had da chance!"

"Oh shut up, you fat cunt!" one of his compatriots barked at him from the small fire they had built. It crackled merrily in the freezing cold, and the small clearing they had cleared for it was just wide enough that all four men would be able to sit and sleep comfortably without rising rolling into the fire. "Just finish feeding the horses and keep your Gods-damned complaining to yourself!"

"You shut up, ya pimple faced rat!" he snapped, but he fell into muttering to himself.

He wasn't a very fat man, but anyone that looked at him realized immediately that he enjoyed his food a little too much. That was why he had married Greta, the bakers daughter of a small village just south of the Dreadfort nigh on twelve years ago. What she lacked in looks….she was as flat as a wet stone and she had two front teeth that belonged on a bleeding hare! She certainly made up in culinary skills.

Now, all because he had fought under Lord Bolton at the Battle of the Bastards, he was stuck serving with two hundred ass-ugly men at Sentinel Stand. One of the most run-down pieces of shit he had ever seen. Why the fuck were they even manning it? There was no unwashed stinking wildlings north of the Wall. The Bastard of Winterfell had seen to that.

He didn't believe in no grumpkins and snarks either, dammit! There were no damn white walkers, no fucking spiders as large as hounds.

 _No_ , he thought bitterly as he tied the last feed bag to the last horse. _Instead, I have to make da one-eyed man cry myself!_

Before coming to the Wall, he had never had to masturbate. No, because he and his wife had perhaps missed a gran-total of three days of sex their entire marriage. That's right! He had got so raw on his manhood that they had to stop for a few days so he could recover. His Greta had been sex starved. What was she doing now that he wasn't around to satisfy her insatiable lust? He had three fine boys but he had heard stories of what lonely mothers and sons did. He shivered at the thought. The Father and Mother take them if they do those sort of things!

He patted the horse on the muzzle after finally tying the last feedbag to it. This was his horse the Sentinel Stand Lord Commander had been so gracious to offer him for this ranging. Minzy was her name, and she actually resembled his oldest boy, Killian in a way. Which was very odd indeed.

He turned away from the horse and with a grunt dragged himself through the thick now to the clearing. Snow fell away from him, nearly reaching the fire as he exited the wall of powder snow and entered the small clearing. Almost immediately the snow began to melt as with a grunt, he lowered himself to his haunches, feeling relief as he sat with crossed legs, the blazing fire washing him with warmth.

"About fucking time Jimmy!" the leader of their company, a Ranger named Garth who had been Nights Watch for seven years barked. "Had you been any slower, The Long Night would have passed us completely by and we'd all be sun-bleached skeletons!"

"Ya want to feed them?" Jimmy snapped. "Then be my fucking guest! Why I have to feed them every fucking day and night is beyond me!"

"It's because you are the fattest of us," Garth pointed a stick at him as if it were a sword. "The extra work will do you a fucking world of good!"

"Fuck ya!" Jimmy snapped.

The other two Brothers, both men who had served with Jimmy under Lord Bolton, said nothing, but they looked sullenly into the fire. One of them ate a small strip of meet from the rabbit they had found and killed earlier that day. The other stared into the fire, a scowl on his face. Not that any man could blame them for their sullen moods.

One, a rich boy named Robert, had just received a raven from his father. His wife had just had a baby girl, and Robert would have to wait until the returned from this ranging. His wife, a rather pretty lass, if Jimmy the Fat said so himself, was going to be waiting for him back at Sentinel Stand to present his daughter to him. Sure, he couldn't fuck his wife, but the Lord Commander wasn't a completely heartless bastard!

The other man, a stick-bug of a man named Charles, was only here because his brother had been unable to fight the day of the battle. He had been sick and so he had gone in his place. The fucker had been a blacksmith! Why the fuck had he decided to go out to do battle?

"Tomorrow we will reach Dillars Keep," Garth informed the men. "If he and his three wives haven't left yet, they'll house us. If not, well, I know where they keep their food for fuckers like us. We'll stay there for the night tomorrow, then we'll spend another two days Ranging."

"Why are we even doing this anyways?" Charles demanded. "For three days now we've been doing this. It makes no sense! What if we get caught in a blizzard? We could perish out here!"

"Because the Lord Commander told us to, that's why!" Garth snapped. "That's good enough for me. I have served with Ser Nezzel since I first arrived at the Watch. He's a good man, and he's got a good nose for trouble. If we can find whatever has got up his fucking craw, then we will do everyone a big fucking favor."

Jimmy wasn't really sure if Ser Nezzel…..who had a fucking idiotic name like that?...was nearly as good or intuitive as Garth claimed. Yet Jimmy would be a good Ranger. If that was the only way to keep in the good graces of the Nights Watch and keep from getting more than a finger in the bum by some horny Bolton men, he'd be all for it.

"Charles, you will have the first watch," Garth said. "I'll take the second. Robert, you will take the third. And for Gods sakes! Will you all stop looking so fucking sulky? You look like a bunch of fucking children!"

The man laid back, grabbing the blanket from his side and pulling it over him. He didn't even care that he had no blanket under him to keep him warm. Jimmy was simply fuckling tired, all of a sudden. Which was strange and odd to say the least. Musta been all the fucking work he had done that day. Too be honest, being a Ranger had actually done him a world of good. He pulled the satchel with his spare clothing under his head and looking up at the sky above, and all the stars above, he drifted off asleep.

A few hours later, as the fire burned down low, and the Ranger Garth was pissing in the snow bank, grimacing in relief, a dark figure stood in the distance, the darkness swallowing him whole. Perhaps the Ranger felt the prickling in the back of the neck that all men have had since the beginning of time. Back when humanity was but little more than prey to the beasts of the world.

The figure blinked once, clutching the long cold sword at his side. What had once been his name? Had he had a family? What had been his people? It had been so long ago, that the very concept of Gods was lost on him. Love, humility, charity, hope….these were all things of the past.

The figure hissed, hatred as cold as a blizzard issuing forth from his mouth, moving the straggly beard. He lifted the sword and moved forward, the snow parting before him as water parts before a ship, with ease and grace. Within a few short moments, with long strides, he was entering the range of the fire. The Ranger was strapping up his breeches when he looked up. He cried out in alarm and dropping his breeches which he hadn't finished lacing, shouted to his compatriots.

The other Rangers awoke with a start and a smile crossed his lips as he saw the fear in their eyes. Hands went to swords. He said nothing, made no sound but raised his hand. The fire died with a small pop, and all that shone in the pitch black was twin stars of icy blue.


	63. Story Announcement

**Story Announcement**

Two years ago, I decided to rewrite season 7. The pacing was dreadfully terrible, the logic of much of what had happened was non-existent and the jet packing was atrocious. Plot armor was alive and well.

I had a lot of fun writing the first couple of episodes. A few points went off the rails, such as the rather silly Inheritance-Cycle cross-over (which I admit upon reflection wasn't the greatest idea). But I felt that it got closer to the characters and their motivations. And despite the blow-back I got, especially by making a stronger Jon-Sansa relationship than was either in the books or shows, I felt that most of what was written made sense. Such as scenes where Dany was alone with a single character and able to have genuine conversations and show a more human side to her.

I finished episode 10, and then ran out of steam hard. It took a lot to crank out even the first chapter of episode 11, but, as I hadn't even completed half of my planned 24 episode season, I lost all hope of completing it. So, I decided to sit back, and I figure, D&D will deliver in season 8.

During this time, I've had two relationships, moved apartments, had my car break down at least once to the fine tune of $1030 in repairs and self-published two books.

Then…I watched each episode rush past. And frankly, what I saw wasn't that good. Jon riding a dragon (which honestly, I've never been a big fan of) was played off not as a moment of revelation to Dany and Jon of his lineage. No, it was a joy ride. Battle tactics made no sense, and the plot armor was so bad that Sam Tarly could lay in middle of the Walker Apocalypse, weep like a little bitch and yet somehow survive. The Night King is taken out by Arya (which I have no problems with and was actually planning on her being involved) while Jon isn't in the vicinity and screaming at a dragon like an idiot.

But I was willing to give them the benefit of a doubt. Perhaps they would pull it off in the end. If the ending was strong, it would make up for a lot of the problems. A strong ending can allow for a lot of forgiveness.

But then I saw "The Bells". Seven Hells. I have no problem with Mad Queen Dany. But her reasoning for going so makes no sense. The excuses the actor, directors and D&D give are stupid and nonsensical. "She sees the Red Keep which her family built, is reminded of it being taken away, and then decides to make it personal." What?! What type of shite answer is that?

I feel like the character of Sam Malone, the main character of _Cheers._ During the episode "The Magnificent Six", a Frenchman named Henri was goading him about how he's not a ladies man. After watching him prancing around, Sam Malone announces, "Get the Babe Box!" But when alone with it open, he make a resigned, "Well, I guess we aren't retired after-all."

Well, I guess I'm not retired after-all.

That's right. The story is coming back. We are going to be finishing the last 13 episodes of this season. Then, after a few months break, we'll start with season 8.

Now, before we really start into this season, I need to do the following two things:

1\. I need to re-read the entire story. Why? Because this isn't a small story, somewhere in the vicinity of 320 pages, bigger than some books. It's been about a year and a half since I did any writing in it, and I need to refamiliarize myself with the plot, where everyone is, whose doing what. Nobody would like it if I had, say, Jamie having just escaped the battle with Dany's dragon, only to appear in Casterly Rock and I not have any good reason why he was there, especially if he got away unscathed.

2\. Watch next Sunday's episode, the series finale. I need to see where they are planning on taking the story as a whole, where they plan on ending it. That way, I know what to avoid or perhaps work towards with my own version. As I stated earlier, things like Dany going Mad Queen is something I've been lacing in my own writing.

With these two things, it might be a week or two before I can really get back into it. Also, I currently am working two jobs, for a total of 12 hours a day. So I'm not going to be cranking out stuff every single day. But I think we all deserved a story which is better paced and just all around better. Which I hope that up to this point, even with some of the silliness, is generally the case, that this story is a superior quality.


	64. Epi 11, Ch 2: Tyrion

***Tyrion***

Walking cautiously, the dwarf approached the edge of the alley. He had stolen a few rags from a clothesline of wet clothes. It had been disgusting to have the feeling of moist cloth wrapped around his head like a shawl, and a wet blanket to drape over his fine clothing. Yet there was little that would have been as likely to give him away as the fine cloth.

A quick glance into the street showed three Lannister soldiers hanging near a door to a house. They were chatting, laughing amiably with a slender woman. He glanced side to side and saw no one else. Good, maybe they could make it.

He held up a hand and motioned forward. In the mud-strewn alley, he could hear the squelching of feet that were twice the size of his own. The nervous energy of his companion had an unfortunate habit of rubbing off onto him.

"Stop it!" Tyrion snapped.

"Stop what?" Varys asked.

"Stop being so nervous," he said, pulling his head back. "All we need do is get into that alleyway across the street and then it's a straight shot to the brothel."

"Oh, and of course we won't be spotted by any Lannister soldiers or the Iron Born," the Master of Whispers said without conviction.

"Just follow me," Tyrion growled. "Act like you are supposed to be here and no one will notice."

Varys didn't say anything. Tyrion turned his face to look at the bald, taller man. He was also wearing a hood, but unlike Tyrion, his were a bit more flashy. Tyrion bit his lower lip, hoping against hope that Varys wouldn't blow it for them.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Tyrion stepped out into the street. He walked calmly, but not enough for it to draw attention to himself. He glanced sideways at the three soldiers, and one leaned against the doorframe. He grimaced as the man's face was turned their direction, but it was obvious that he was more interested in the perky set of tits in-front of him. The woman, although she wasn't exactly the most slightly of women, certainly held her own in that regard.

 _That's right, stare at the tits,_ he thought to himself, hoping that the thought would have miraculous power over the soldier. It already felt like forever that they had been exposed. With the Lannister soldiers now freed from the close guard of the Dothraki and Unsullied who had been left to maintain control of Dragonstone, suddenly there was hundred of eyes that would willingly sever his head from his body.

The soldiers and the woman laughed at a jest, and he glanced sideways again. Reaching out, the woman grabbed two of the soldiers and pulled them inside. The third, a sloppy grin on his face, followed suit.

 _That's right. Focus on the chance to stick your fingers inside her clam. Don't focus on the two men just minding their business._

And with that…..they slipped between the two houses and entered the alleyway. Tyrion could hear the voices of the men from within, and the woman talking with them. He hoped that she would be able to exhaust them with her sexual prowess so they didn't step outside.

"Honestly, I don't know how much of this sneaking around I can handle," Varys muttered loud enough for Tyrion to hear.

"I'm the one that feels his balls are shriveling up because of how close we could be to getting captured at any moment," Tyrion snorted. "You're a spider. Aren't you used to dangerous situations?"

"I've always made it a point to do things in a way that I'm not surrounded by hundreds of people who know where my true loyalties lie and want me dead because of it," Varys retorted. "The stress of this situation is enough for me to grow my balls back."

"Please don't," Tyrion begged. "I don't know if the world could handle a second Varys."

As he said that, they reached the end of the alleyway. Out here, the cliffs were close, and outcroppings of rock jutted. The brothel could be seen, lifted a good twenty feet above them, the smallest of walkways jutting from the side of the cliff. If his memory served, Tysha's window was on the back-corner opposite of them. Hopefully there would be handholds to the cliff that they could climb.

"Are you certain of this whore's loyalties to you?" Varys asked, as Tyrion led him towards the small stone walkway.

"I am certain that Tysha has no love for my siblings or the Lannister family in general," Tyrion responded. "The better question is, how did you not know that Euron was about to attack Dragonstone?"

"Do you think that Daenerys would have stayed if I had told her?"

"I wouldn't know, I'm not her Hand anymore. She can clean up her own shit from now on."

The crashing of the waves was certainly enough to drown them out to anyone who may have been on the lookout for him. The walkway was no more than a foot at places, so pressing their faces against the rock wall, they scooted their feet across the stone, not looking down to the thundering waves below of Blackwater Bay.

Tyrion didn't know if it was exactly bravery or stupidity that gave him the strength to not become overwhelmed by the insanity of such a narrow escape. Anything could go wrong and then it would be the end of Tyrion Lannister. He glanced towards Varys, whose girth was proving somewhat of a determent to his attempt to slide along.

Tyrion turned back, just in time for a strong wind to rip the rag from around his head and throw it back towards Varys. The dwarf kept a positive mindset though. All he needed was one more step. And one more step after that. He focused on each step, until he reached the point where he was certain her room was.

Luckily, there was indeed grips in the rock and with an exertion of his strength, he was able to scramble to the top. Standing, he turned to Varys, watching the other man climb as best he could. Both men weren't exactly in the best shape, and when Varys seemed to tire with only a few feet left, Tyrion encouraged him, holding out his hand. Varys took it and with a grunt from both men, they pulled the eunuch onto the flat grass.

Varys was huffing and puffing, sweat dabbling his forehead. "Let's never fucking do that again," he said.

"Only one more climb, and that's over that window and into the room," he said, pointing to the window.

Varys smiled. "My Lord Tyrion," he commented. "That's a climb only for you. Me, I can lay over it and let gravity take me the rest of the way."

Tyrion scowled as he turned. They hurried to the window, which came up to his eye. He held a finger up and listened through the wall. He didn't hear anything and nodding, he pulled himself up. At the last possible moment, he felt hands grab both his legs as Varys flipped him into the room head first.

"What are you do-" Tyrion began but grunted as he landed on something with an oomph.

"What in Seven Hells?" a woman's voice called out.

Tyrion turned his head, saw that he landed right on Tysha! She had been laying on the bed, her eyes groggy. With a slap of his hand, he planted it over her mouth. Tysha, still coming out of sleep, panicked and struggled.

"Tysha!" he hissed, "It's me, Tyrion! I'm sorry but me and my friend need a place to hide from the Iron Born and Lannister soldiers. Please, don't scream!"

He looked into her brown, expressive eyes. She nodded her head as best as she could with his hand covering her mouth. He slowly lifted it away and rolled off of her, standing on the floor over her. Tysha was dressed in a green dress that had a plunging neckline that revealed the valley between her breasts. She looked lovely, and his heart skipped a beat.

"It looks like you've fallen on hard times," Tysha said.

"I hate to impose on you," the former Hand said, "But me and my friend will most certainly be killed if we can't hide for a few days."

Tysha didn't respond before Varys climbed through the window. Tysha turned to him and he held out a hand to her. Frowning, she lifted her hand to him, and taking it, Varys pressed her knuckles to his lips. A smile tugged at her lips.

"I am simply charmed to meet you, Lady Lannister," Varys said.

"Oh!" Tyrion waved his hands to correct him. "She's not a Lannister."

"Actually, the marriage was never annulled," Varys corrected _him._ "Your Lord father never did. Must have slipped the old man's mind. And the lady her, she never did either."

Tyrion frowned as he heard the words. He shifted his focus to her, and she face flushed with embarrassment. How was that true? Surely his lord father had remembered. He would never allow his son to remained married to a whore.

"I had hoped that one day you would return and we would make things better and have a proper marriage," Tysha said, standing to her feet. "Well, I'm not so naïve to think it will happen. But, you have found me at long last."

Tyrion felt embarrassed as she said that. Well, he hadn't actually come to find her. He had been too hurt by that. She walked past him, stopped. She lingered for a moment and put a hand on his shoulder. Shock filled him at the touch.

"I told you," she said. "I wasn't a whore. And I did love you."

Tyrion couldn't say anything as she left the room and closed the door. The dwarf and eunuch were left in silence, alone to their thoughts. He turned to the door, looking at it as suddenly he wasn't sure _what_ to make of it.

"Oh, I just love seeing couples getting back together," Varys said cheerfully.


	65. Epi 11, Ch 3: Bran

***Bran***

 _The winds howled fiercely, blowing snow across the barren landscape. Azor Ahai pulled his cloak closer to him, and looking over his shoulder, he spotted his ten companions. One had frozen to death and the other had been swarmed by the undead. They had been unable to reach him fast enough to save him._

 _A single wierwood alone stood out, it's leaves dark as blood. Even in his snow filled sight, it shone clearly to the man. With a smile, he urged his horse forward. The direwolf padded along at his side, his dark brown fur flattening against the wind._

 _Reaching the tree, he slid down to the ground. The direwolf sniffed around the tree, and his eyes swept the area._

 _"So where are they?" one of his companion shouted to him. It was the youngest of their company, a lad of no more than thirteen years. "Where are the Children of the Forest, Azor?"_

 _"I will see if they left us a sign," he called back._

 _But it was a good question. As he looked at the wierwood, it's face fat and the tears of blood red sap running from near closed eyes to lips, he also had to wonder. Bending close to the ground, he passed his eyes over the earth, looking for signs of any footprints. Maybe even a piece of leaf clothing._ Something _to indicate that they had actually been there._

 _It was only a small hope, and as he slowly walked around the tree, he really wasn't sure why they weren't there. This was where they had said they would be. So where had they gone? Why weren't they here?_

 _Bran looked on the scene, the still mounted men with cloaks whipping around them, horse manes and tails blown by the wind. He saw Azor Ahai rub his face, a thick beard now covering his jaw. Then he watched Azor Ahai stand up, walk back to his companions and mount._

 _"It is strange, isn't it?" the old Child of the Forest asked, appearing in the tree. "The Last Hero as Men called him, couldn't find the Children of the Forest, even after they had given them pledges to assist them."_

 _"Why?" Bran asked, watching the riders turn and begin to ride off, deeper into the storm. "Why would the Children of the Forest do such a thing?"_

 _"Another time," the other said, and he vanished and appeared at his side. He grabbed him by the hand, "Now, we must…."_

Bran's eyes snapped open. Water drenched his face, soaking into his tunic, the water rippling down his shirt to his breeches. Reaching up his hand, he wiped away some of the excess water that covered his face. As he did so, he noticed the tall form of Sansa standing over him, bucket in both hands. Water droplets fell from the lip to the floor.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"You were gone for a long time," Sansa explained, dropping the bucket onto the floor. "You looked as if you were in a lot of pain."

His body did indeed ache. He could feel a dull ache that ran laced through his bones. More and more he was understanding the past. _It is beautiful at the bottom of the sea. Stay too long though, and you will drown._ He felt more and more the truth of Bloodraven's words. Despite his gaining of information, he couldn't help but feel that this old Child of the Forest may indeed be trying to do just that. Drown him in the past.

"So, what is it that you need?" he asked, turning his focus away from such thoughts.

"Well…." She started, confusion on her face. She struggled to find the right words, but for reasons that she herself probably didn't understand, words were failing her. Putting a hand to her forehead, she sat down on his bed. "What was it that I saw?"

"A cripple having a fit," he said with a smile.

"You know what I mean," she rolled her eyes and said exasperatedly. "What did I see in the Godswood?"

"Things that are important," he replied.

"Important?"

"Yes."

"How so?"

"You tell me."

Sansa closed her eyes, her nostrils flaring. Jumping to her feet, she began to pace back and forth. Bran watched her move back and forth. Bran had seen her naked. Not once, but multiple times in his visions. For some reason, he wasn't able to pull away from the visions when they appeared. Such as one time when she was taking a bath and this woman was bathing her, being passive aggressive in her threats due to jealousy towards her because of Ramsey Bolton.

It was rather disgusting. He'd rather have visions of Meera naked. Yet he never did for her. But seeing his sister naked, it made him throw up in his mouth. How did Jaime and Cersei Lannister fuck each other?

"Problem is, I can't make any sense of _what_ any of it I saw was!" she exclaimed. "Who were those fire-kissed women I saw in….in…that vision. Why did I see giants silhouetted by a burning forest? What of a dragon burning a city? What about this fireball from the sky that smashed into a wall of ice?"

"I honestly can't explain everything to you," Bran said. "I have seen a dragon flying over a city, it's shadow falling over the houses. I have seen Jaime Lannister as he stabbed the Mad King in the back. I have seen an explosion of green fire. I don't always know what they mean. It's never just laid out to me. Except in these visions of late. All I can tell you is that if you focus on them, try to understand them in your mind's eye, you will eventually come to understand it. Or at least, why certain things were shown to you."

She kept pacing back and forth, crossing her arms in front of her as she thought, her eyebrows furrowing towards each other. Honestly, as he watched her, he wasn't sure what exactly she was wanting him to say. He was surprised that Sansa had been able to have a greenseeing vision via the weirwood net. She had of course had a empathic relationship with her direwolf Lady, who had taken her temperament and personality of being lady-like as her own. But her having a vision? Only Rickon had shown besides him that ability.

Sansa slowed her walking and sat back down, all but throwing herself onto the straw mattress. She looked down at the floor and breathed heavily. She shook her dark-red haired head back and forth.

"I just….I just don't know," she admitted with a sigh. "I really want to understand what I saw. I want to understand Jon Sand."

"He's a Blackfyre," Bran reminded her.

"No, he's not."

"What?" Bran asked.

"The Blackfyres were legitimized by Aegon IV," she corrected him. "Jon would have had to be born by a Blackfyre legitimately to be one. As Rheager was his father, he would be a Sand since he was bastard-born in Dorne."

Bran frowned. Huh, perhaps Sansa was correct. Bran had never really had a mind for surnames. Master Lewyn had spent many an hour chastising him for not getting them correct. He never seemed to learn. Even as an adult. Then again, he had been freezing the rest of his body off in the Gods forsaken North.

"If you want," Bran said, inspiration hitting him. "I could show you."

"How?" Sansa asked, looking up at him dubiously.

"Well," he shrugged, "When I was learning to do visions, the previous Three-Eyed Raven guided me. He helped me enter them and taught me within the visions. That's how I learned about Hodor and the Tower of Joy. If you want, I can try to see if we can do the same."

Sansa looked skeptical. Bran didn't blame her. He hadn't exactly trusted Jojen Reed when he had first said he could help Bran with his visions. That he understood. For Sansa, someone who had never really been around the mysterious and the mystical, it may have been more than a little odd.

"Really?" she asked.

"I can certainly try," he said, throwing as much confidence behind his words as he could. "I never have tried before, but if my mentor could do it, then it doesn't hurt anything."

Sansa stared at him for a long while. Bran could have sworn he could hear the wooden cogs turning in her head. She really wanted to see those things she had seen before. To truly understand. But she wasn't sold exactly on Bran's ability to help her.

After a long time, she nodded her head. "Alright," she said. "Let's do it."

Bran felt nervous excitement exploding in him. This was going to be exciting!


	66. Epi: 11, Ch 4: Sansa

***Sansa***

 _Kaw. Kaw. Kaw._

Was it her imagination, or was Sansa actually noticing that there was an influx of ravens that seemed to be hanging out at Winterfell? Bran had tried to explain his what he was to her, back when he first had returned to Winterfell. Sansa, in both a mixture of annoyance at Jon for not congratulating her on the food tax idea and jubilation at seeing her little brother, had not quiet grasped all he said. Three-Eyed Raven. What the Gods did that actually mean?

But the more time that passed between that conversation, and the more she couldn't help but notice that ravens seemed to be perched in every nook and cranny. She had an uncomfortable feeling that the ravens were spying on her. It was a ridiculous notion of course.

 _Ravens are far more intelligent than most birds, Lady Sansa_. The words of Maester Lewyn, spoken years ago, came to her mind. _They are of an intelligence not unlike humans. Only not as refined. There are reasons we use them to relay information._

 _What type of information is being relayed to Bran?_ Sansa wondered.

"I hope you like this wheelchair," she said, her hands gripping the handlebars of the wheelchair. She pushed it through the snow, snow falling in a nice flurry.

"It's much more comfortable than using my crutches and leg-braces," Bran agreed.

The snow did not part easily at all places. As they approached the archway that lead into the several acre wide Godswood, a particularly thick drift ground them to a halt. Sansa gritted her teeth as she backed up, and rammed it forward, gaining an inch further into the snow. Back she pulled and again she drove it forward. Three times. Four times. _Eight_ times it took before she burst past the last of the snow. The sudden evaporation of resistance caused her to fall forward, her breasts slamming hard against the top corner of the wheel-chair and her head flopped forward, her chin connecting hard against Bran's head.

"Ow!" Bran started, reaching up to rub his head. "What did you do that for?"

"Shut up!" Sansa snapped, taking a moment to rub her chin with one hand and her breasts with the other. She had no idea which one hurt more. "It's not like I meant to!"

"Come on then!" Bran said exasperatedly, pointing a finger forward. "We can't spend all day with you doing stuff you didn't mean to. Not if we are going to explore your visions."

If looks could heave killed, Sansa would have been melting the boy's head in. It wasn't like she meant to! Her nostrils flared and her face heated up, her temper rising. She could have reached across and strangled the annoying little git!

But a lady never gives into her temper. She is poised at all times. She takes the abuse of the world not because she is worthless, but because as a lady, her graceful demeanor allows the self-same abuse to flow around her like running water, with her as a rock. A rock that is smoothed out, the imperfections washed away by the water.

She pushed the wheelchair forward, Septa Mordane's words of wisdom and council a strength to her. She knew Bran did not mean anything ill, but that he was simply excited. Excited to share in this gift that his older sister had shown she was capable of as well.

Was she excited at the prospect of seeing the visions again? A little bit. But she was also nervous as well. The vision had been irresistible. She had been unable to exit on her own volition. She had felt almost as if she were going to drown at times during it. But, if Bran indeed was experienced with it and could help her, she had faith in him.

 _Bran will never hurt me. He will never let me drown._

They approached the wierwood, it's weeping face seeming sad that it was being interrupted in its solitude. Ned had always told his children that the Old Gods watched them from the trees. As a child, she had believed that. As an adult though, she had always felt that the trees were spying on them.

Her arms and legs burned from the effort of pushing the wheelchair through the snow. Bran pointed where he wanted to be stopped, right up against the tree. She made it and let go of the handles. Her arms trembled from the exertion and her face was red, heat from the effort replacing the heat of her temper.

"So," Bran said, removing his gloves. "The name of the power you have accessed is called the greensight. Greenseers can see visions, of the past, present and future. Our visions do not even concern us most of the time, but sometimes they are. Greenseers may even be able to see their own deaths."

That wasn't the most encouraging thought. Sansa didn't want to see her own death. What good would it do her anyways to know?

"Once you get powerful enough," Bran explained, "You won't need to use a wierwood to enter visions. I don't need to. But the tree acts as the stepping-stone to everything else. It's from there that we learn how to fly, as it were."

"You said you can enter the minds of other creatures, like the ravens," Sansa said. _Kaw, kaw, kaw._ She looked at several ravens that had come to rest in the branches up above.

"That is an ability all of its own, and greenseeing doesn't exactly lead to such things," Bran said, answering her unasked question. "If it happens, it happens."

She nodded slowly. It made sense enough.

"Alright," Bran said. He laced his fingers together, turned them outwards and stretched forward. The knuckles cracked at the stretch. "This is only going to be your second time entering the weirwoods. Go ahead, remove your gloves."

Sansa frowned, staring down at her fine rabbit fur lined leather gloves. The gloves were warm and soft, and she didn't really know if she wanted to expose her hands to the cold. It wasn't freezing, but there was a strong chill that peppered her smooth skin, reddening it.

She glanced sideways at Bran, and he gave an encouraging smile. Biting her lower lip, she removed the gloves and shoved them into her leather belt. He pointed to a spot right next to her. She shifted her position to standing next to him.

"I am going to hold the back of your neck as your touch the mouth of the face," he explained. "I am not completely sure, but I am pretty sure that touching you will allow me to enter your visions as well. The old Three Eye Raven didn't need to, but he had grown into the tree itself."

Sansa tried not to shudder at his choice of words. As a girl she wouldn't have thought anything about the words "touching you" but now as a woman, thoughts that would have made Septa Mordane faint were instantly evoked by the words. Instead, she focused on the task at hand. She reached out and touched the open mouth of the tree.

She felt the fingers of Bran's hand wrapping around the back of her neck. He looked towards the tree and she turned to look at him frowning.

"Okay..." she said slowly. "Now what?"

But the question barely left her mouth before suddenly the world vanished from around her. Instead, she found herself falling, as if she had jumped from a cliff-side. The air screamed around her and then….

 _She saw herself standing in the center of a camp of tents. Each tent was white, with grey canopy's on the top. She looked around, people moving about the camp. She couldn't see Bran anywhere. She was alone, and no one seemed to notice she was here._

 _"Bran?" she called out. "Bran! Where are you?"_

 _"Come on Bran, we're going to be late!"_

 _She frowned and turned towards the voice that had called out. Behind her, she saw a young man, tall and proud of bearing. Thick black hair framed his face, but Sansa furrowed her eyebrows. This tall man, he looked extremely like her brother. A horse, a sturdy bay steed stood before him, and a squire in grey and white clothing was helping him put a foot in the saddle._

 _"Seven Hells Ned!" he barked. "I'm going as bloody fast as I can!"_

 _Ned? Sansa's heart started nearly started. Could it possibly be?_

 _And there he was, her father. He looked far younger than Sansa could ever remember him. He had a round face, little of the proud stern beard he would have older. Honestly, as she stared at her father, helmet dangling from his saddle, she couldn't help but think she would have laughed at his face had she not known whom he was. He was a rather off looking young man._

 _"We are the last ones to get to the melee!" Ned barked to his brother. "I really want to get a chance at Rhaegar Targaryen. See if his reputation isn't simply pig-shit."_

 _"No one's stopping you!" Brandon snapped back. "You could have gone with Father, Benjen and Lyanna if you had wanted to."_

 _With that, he pulled himself into the saddle. He had barely gotten on when Ned spurred his horse forward. Brandon cursed as he applied his own heel to the sides of his bay and he followed his brother's gelding at a fast gallop._

 _They were galloping straight at Sansa. They didn't see her, Sansa didn't even know if she was even visible. She waved her arms, trying to get them to turn away. But there was no slowing down and at the last second she jumped to the side._

 _You ass! Sansa berated herself, If this is a vision, they wouldn't have hurt me._

 _She was in mid-thought as the young, funny faced Ned's horse flew past her. The chestnut coat of the beast filled her vision, hoofbeats filling her hearing. Then, just as quickly, the horse was past her…..and the camp was gone._

 _Now she was standing in a great dining hall. Hundreds of voice boomed, no voice able to be discerned from the general hubbub. She saw in the low candle-light the many proud lords and ladies sitting around, drinking and feasting. Her eyes swept the hall and there, near the front of the hall, she could see her father and Uncle Brandon. They alone were faced her direction, but there were others._

 _She moved towards them, wending her way through the people. A few times, such as with a serving wench, she walked through them. The hall was packed almost to bursting at the seams. But she still remained self-conscious, unable to try preventing herself from bumping to people as she walked._

 _"Where are you Bran?" she asked, looking around the room. But she still couldn't see him as she reached the table._

 _"Didn't I tell you I won't have anymore of that nonsense?" a voice rumbled. "You are a Lady of Winterfell, not some shieldmaiden from Bear Island. That means something!"_

 _"Why are you cross with me?" a young woman asked. "I had Rhaegar Targaryen in that last fight! It's only because he's a warlock that he beat me, I'm sure!"_

 _"Gods be good Lyanna!" the voice, which Sansa now saw came from a stern-faced Stark said. He looked like a harsher version of what Sansa recalled her own father before his death. Was this her grandfather Rickard? "What am I to do with you?"_

 _"Marry her off to Roose Bolton," Uncle Brandon jested. "His father has been badgering you long enough about it, Father."_

 _"I'd rather marry his hounds," Lyanna said, pointing her nose in the air._

 _Sansa chuckled at that. Knowing Roose Bolton as well as she did, Sansa couldn't say she was surprised that Ramsey had turned out the way he did. There were two types of cruelty in the world as far as she had known. Cruelty that was calm, measured and with purpose. And then there was the cruelty that was wild, savage and lacking discipline. It wouldn't be hard to know which of those Gods rotten bastards had been the calm and which had been the cruel._

 _"We Starks honor our marriage oaths!" the Lord Rickard pronounced. "Lyanna will marry Robert of House Baratheon and you, my dear son, will marry Catelyn Tully. If I am lucky, Benjen will marry Leyle Hightower and Ned will marry Barby Dustin."_

 _"What a sorrowful lot you would have us marry," Lyanna shook her head. Sansa had to agree. Having seen Lady Barby before, she couldn't imagine her ever having been Sansa's mother._

 _The music from musicians died down and with the reduction in the music, the voices also fell silent as well. All the feasters turned their faces towards the front of the hall, where a man stood. The first thing Sansa noticed was his long fingernails. They were absurdly long. The next thing she noticed was his wild beard and long flowing white hair. A white which seemed to shine even in the dark._

 _She had seen statues of the Mad King before but seeing him in the flesh (in a sense), mad Sansa shudder._

 _"Good subjects of the Realm!" Aerys said, holding up a hand. "You have all displayed great feats of martial skill these past three days. Tomorrow, we will have the last day of the tourney, a great joust!"_

 _The feasters cheered, hailing the king and holding up goblets to him._

 _"Now, you all know my son, Prince Rhaegar," he held his hand to the side, where the Crown Prince sat, his wife Princess Elia Martell next to him in a dress of rubies that caught the dim light. "The fool wishes to serenade you all. Would you like to hear my fool son, your prince, sing a song to you? It is nothing you've heard before, an invention of his own, he claims."_

 _He didn't wait to see if anyone wanted to actually hear Prince Rhaegar. He sat and motioned his son forward. Standing, Rhaegar stepped forward, standing almost as tall as Sansa herself stood. He picked up a harp that had been lying on the floor. Before Sansa knew it, the Prince was beginning to pull the harp strings and his voice began to carry across the hall._

 _"High in the halls of the Kings that are gone, Jenny, she danced with her ghosts!" he sang, his voice like a maiden's dream. Strong, rich and loving. "The one's she had lost and the one's she had found. And the ones that loved her the most."_

 _As his voice carried throughout the hall, a sound drew Sansa's gaze. Lyanna was brushing away tears that were beginning to fall down her cheeks. She frowned and before she knew it, her aunt was weeping. Not even quietly. Eyes were being drawn to her, Grandfather Rickard, Ned, Uncle Benjen and Uncle Brandon. Other feasters turned towards Lyanna as the spell of the song being became mingled with the young woman's weeping tears._

 _The vision changed at once to the inside of a pavilion. Lyanna was pacing back and forth. She looked nervous, casting her eyes to the tent opening. A gentle breeze was outside, rippling across the canvas. Sansa's eyes quickly swept the pavilion, looking for her little brother._

 _She was still alone. Shit. Where was he?_

 _The sound of horse hooves falling could be heard from outside. At first they were soft but they grew as the horses, several of them, rode up to the tent. Lyanna stopped, turning towards the flap. She was wringing her hands together, shifting from foot to foot. Sansa was reminded of a little child waiting to use a latrine._

 _The tent flap flew open, and a single head stuck inside. The man wore a helmet, three fins sticking up from the top of the dome of the helmet. The man looked around, his eyes sweeping the entire tent. His eyes came back to Lyanna and stopped._

 _"Lady Stark?" the man asked._

 _"Yes?" she asked._

 _It really wasn't until she stood there, her eyes fixing on the helmeted man, that Sansa really noticed her aunt. Aunt Lyanna resembled Arya in some ways. At least, how Sansa assumed that Arya would look if she grew up. Not only grew up but transformed to dumpy looking into a beautiful woman. There was strength to her, even though she came perhaps only to Sana's shoulders._

 _"Are you alone, Lady Stark?" the man asked._

 _"My father and brothers have gone on a hunt with Robert Baratheon and Lord Arryn," she nodded. "Where's my beloved? Is….is Rhaegar here?"_

 _The man pulled his head out of the tent. Into the tent, throwing the flap inwards as he entered, stepped Rhaegar Targaryen. A Valyrian steel sword hung from his side. Sansa had seen_ Ice _enough times she could spot one. He stepped up to her and taking her face between his hands….they kissed._

 _Sansa frowned. Wait…..wasn't this a kidnapping? She watched how they interacted with each other and there was no resistance on Lyanna's part. In fact, she seemed to be relishing the moment with the Prince._

 _Into the interiors of the pavilion entered six men. Three Kingsguard and several others. Soon the pavilion was filled, but they said nothing, waiting for their lord's command._

 _"I was afraid you weren't coming," Lyanna gasped as they pulled back from their embrace. "That you had changed your mind."_

 _"I had to convince Elia but she agrees that this is best," Rhaegar explained. "She is going to stay in the capitol to appease my father while we ride south to Dorne. We will marry there, and we will have a child together. Is your stuff ready?"_

 _Lyanna pointed to a corner, and Sansa at last noticed the large satchel that was filled so completely that pieces of cloth spilled out of it. Rhaegar nodded to his men and while one moved to retrieve the satchel, another moved to gather a set of armor that was at the corner. One with a shield that had a wierwood painted on it, the face laughing. Another collected her sword._

 _"Come," he said, and taking her by the hand, led her from the tent._

 _Sansa frowned and moved towards the tent flap. If she had indeed left willingly, why had no one known about it? There had been no kidnap and no rape. If that was true, and she had been found in Dorne as Father had told her, was it possible that they had indeed been married? She knew Targaryens did have a history of polygamous marriage, so it wasn't impossible._

 _If that was the case, then Jon, if he was indeed their child, wasn't a Sand. He wasn't even a bastard. He was a Targaryen, and their father had lied to them for all this time. Hiding a legalized Targaryen among them._

 _"Who are you?"_

 _Sansa turned to see a creature of human form staring hard at her. His eyes were golden and burned hot. He seemed old beyond count of years and Sansa wasn't sure if he had actually been talking to her or not. There was also something about him that spoke of the Forest, as if he were a part of it._

 _"You can't be here," the creature said, "You shouldn't be seeing me. You are not the Three-Eyed Raven."_

 _And with a leap that carried him across the room, the small creature grabbed Sansa around the throat and threw her down to the ground. Sansa's back hit the ground and her hand went to her throat, trying to pry loose the fingers that were wrapped around her neck. But the harder she struggled, the tighter the creature gripped._

 _And Sansa knew as she looked into those yellow eyes filled with hatred and loathing, that he was really going to kill her, unless Bran could save her._

To be continued in episode 13: **Gorgeous Beasts**...

* * *

 _ **Episode Notes:**_

 _ **-It was a super good idea that I re-read the entire season up to the current point in the story. When I decided to return to it, I had forgot about Tyrion re-meeting Tysha, that Davos had gone down to Dragonstone, and Jon had already learned Rhaegar and Lyanna were his parents. It prevents me from starting storylines that make no sense in the grand scheme of things.**_

 _ **-This story was originally going to be finished last Wednesday, but I came down with the flu on Wednesday and was unable to focus on it until the weekend.**_

 _ **-This was originally going to be 5 chapters. The Sansa chapter was going to be split in two, with either Jon or Jorah being the center of it.**_

 _ **-I had actually forgotten that in episode 11 I had given Sansa a green-seeing vision. While she doesn't in the books, she's the only Stark child who really hasn't had anything supernatural in her life towards her. Rickon could have green dreams. Bran has become an all-seeing deity known as the Three-Eyed Raven. Jon has literally died and been resurrected (in the books, it's almost implied that Jon's soul actually gets anchored by Ghost). Arya has learned to takes people's faces and change her entire body. Sansa, lacking anything like that, I felt would be a good candidate for green-seeing.**_

 _ **-To further the point of Sansa and her latent greenseeing abilities, I've revised my endgame for Sansa. I hope the twist will both be logical for the progression of this story and follow perhaps the single rule of this universe that is NOT meant to be broken "Actions have consequences, and you can't escape them."**_

 _ **-There was much speculation that we were going to see a Tourney of Harrenhall flashback in season 7, but it never happened. Since I'm not constrained by a budget, only the amount of pages I wish to devote to a single chapter, I felt this was a good was of going about showing it.**_

 _ **-I felt that the White Walkers were being forgotten in the focus I put on the War of Queens (Dany v. Cersei). So starting off this episode with the Bolton prisoners who became Night's Watchman being attacked by a WW was a good reminder that they are out and about.**_

 _ **-Also re-reading this story, I had to laugh. Because I called Tyrion resigning as Hand of the Queen and Euron mounting his fleet with ballista YEARS before it made it to the actual series. I also called Rhaegal's death by ballista as well.**_

 _ **-Upon finishing this episode, I am going to actually break the season into two separate stories. The amount of chapters that this season has already reached my be a little intimidating to new readers. So, to help make it more manageable and more inviting to new people, episodes 13-24 will be in their own story.**_


End file.
